


The Space You Leave Behind You When You Go

by Sarai



Series: Stars from Home [10]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-04-18 00:51:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 43
Words: 91,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4685978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarai/pseuds/Sarai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes being a mutant is easier than being a person. At least as mutants, we know where we belong... </p><p>When an unexpected visitor crash-lands on the lawn of the Xavier Institute, Scott tells a lie that becomes a secret Alex may not be able to keep. Meanwhile Scott and Ororo face tough questions of who they are, where they fit, and who they want to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Spring had burst, the greenest green in the grass, bright flowers that popped up overnight. For months it had. It sent weeds into every corner of the garden.

Spring seemed done bursting.

Spring had drunk in all the sunshine it could bear and now the sunshine bounced around, making the world hot and bright.

Scott was pleased.

Well, he was happy in general today. He'd had good news. Plus there was no traffic on the road, so he did not keep to the side but rode his bicycle in the lane like a car. It wasn't as fast as a car, but not for lack of trying.

And spring was _over_! It was summertime now! It marked the start of three whole months of not hearing Ororo mention the color of a flower, if he was lucky. She never meant any harm by it and Scott wanted to share her enthusiasm. But how great could colors be? He knew they were there, but he barely missed them.

He did miss the gate, though. Lost in thought, he barely noticed it until he passed it by. Thinking a curse, he tried to turn around.

Immediately he knew it had been a mistake.

He was going too fast. The turn was too sharp. The bike slid out from beneath him and Scott hit the ground hard.

He picked himself up carefully. He had taken a few knocks, mostly mild. His side had a raw patch, as did his wrist.

"Great," he grumbled.

The patch on his side would heal. The one on his wrist… Scott had never had parents before. The Professor and Ruth weren't really his parents, but they were close to it, as far as Scott understood parents. He was pretty sure it was his mom who was supposed to worry, though.

Scott righted his bike, let himself in the gate, and pedaled up the driveway.

He remembered the way he used to trudge home, when 'home' was the orphanage. Back then, he didn't have any family. Now he had an all-but-mom who would ask about the injury and accept it. He had a sort-of-dad who would give him that _look_ , like somehow it wasn't Scott who had fallen off his bike.

Scott leaned the bicycle against the wall and approached the front door. It burst open almost as he reached it, spilling out another member of his not-by-blood-family, a hurricane in human form that ranted in a language he did not understand. He was pretty sure this one was not Arabic, but he didn't comment.

Ororo paused and looked at Scott like he had walked into the bathroom while she was on the toilet.

Well, Scott reasoned, not wholly. Ororo was not private about physical things. She certainly looked intruded upon, however.

She looked unhappy now. He tried to think of why. It was summertime! It was such a nice, non-flower-color day. It was promising to be a really, really good day. What could be wrong?

"Or—"

"That helmet looks stupid," she snapped, and stormed off.

"Ororo?" but she didn't even turn around. He shrugged—regretted it, because that jostled his raw side—and headed indoors. "Ruth?" he called. He didn't call loudly, but he called.

"Do you know what a dust storm is?" Ruth asked.

"Of course." He _was_ from Nebraska.

"In the desert—in some deserts—it is not dust. So it is a sand storm. It can strip the paint from a wagon."

Scott grinned. "What's she mad about?"

Ruth gave him an encouraging smile. "Nothing to worry about. Did you enjoy the library?"

No nodded. "It was great!"

She startled dramatically. "Great?"

"Great."

"Ask Hank to take care of that wrist."

"It's only little," Scott insisted.

"This is the first time you have fallen off your bicycle in months. Maybe the man who insisted you wear a helmet would like to know all you have is a scratch on your wrist, hm?"

He hadn't considered it from that perspective, but Ruth was right. Hank lately had been talking a lot about safety precautions. Hardly anybody wore seatbelts in cars, but Hank had even reckless Alex sold on the idea (although that may have been about making Hank stop talking).

Scott headed for Hank's lab by way of the kitchen, where he instinctively reached for a Pop Tart before remembering they weren't allowed to have those anymore. Hank said they were a fire hazard. Scott suspected that was a convenient excuse, since Professor Xavier hated them. He said the cinnamon ones—the best!—were just cookies dressed up.

Scott grabbed an apple instead.

It was gone by the time he reached the lab, seeds and all.

"Hank?"

Scott knocked, then made his way inside.

Hank, giant and furry and blue (or so Scott had been told), dangled upside down. That wasn't uncommon. He was doing something science-like with tiny things that took magnifying glasses to see. Hank had rigged up a pair of literal magnifying glasses, ones worn like any other sort of glasses.

He slipped them off, set them down, then hurled himself off and flipped around. It wasn't about anything new, but Scott still grinned when Hank landed lightly on his feet.

"I fell off my bike," Scott announced. "Banged my wrist, but my head's completely… completely…" He pretended he could not recall the word.

Hank bounced around his lab to put a basketball to shame, quite literally off the walls. There were simpler ways to collect antiseptic and a bandage, but this one was more fun.

"Hank, if I, um, needed a bit more of that," Scott began, awkward rather than affecting brain damage, "could I…?"

"Keep a secret from a telepath?" Hank supplied.

Scott sighed and closed the door. All the modesty Ororo lacked, Scott made up for. He didn't like other people seeing the scars on his body. But Hank was the closest thing to a doctor and Scott beyond clumsy.

So Hank fixed the broken patches on Scott's side and his wrist.

"Have you been here all morning?"

"Well, it would be my first time leaving the house in years," Hank said.

"We both know that's not tr—ah!"

Scott had been taught not to cry out in pain. He responded, however, as ever with a noise like a puppy that stepped on a tack.

"Hydrogen peroxide kills healthy cells as well as bacteria," Hank explained. "Unfortunately, it's quite true that this pain will be useful to you."

Scott sighed. "Have you seen Alex today?"

"No," Hank said, honestly, "but I've been in the lab. He doesn't like to visit."

Scott nodded.

"He's doing better, Scott."

"I know."

They got to talking about _The Silmarillion_ , and there was a conversation that could last for years. Scott wasn't having the easiest time with it, but he was determined. Naturally, Hank had read the whole thing half a dozen times and could recite long passages from memory

They could have talked for years about the book.

As it was, they only needed about half an hour. Then Scott looked at the clock and swore.

"I'm late!"

He bolted.

Sometimes, the place seemed tiny for a mansion. Only so much of it was in use, just enough for everyone to trip over one another. Going from Hank's laboratory to Professor Xavier's study, however, was about the farthest anyone could go without needing to use the stairs.

Scott was already late. He ran anyway, at the least to be less than very late, and tumbled into the study half-babbling, "I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention—I know I was supposed to be here earlier."

Charles Xavier's school had survived its first year, more or less. Still, he could not say he had years of experience with teenagers—only with this teenager. Scott took 'well-meaning' to a new level.

"Have a seat, Scott."

He did, still looking a touch of anxious.

"Now, I realize it's summertime, but I thought we might use this opportunity to advance your studies."

Scott knew a euphemism when he heard one.

The Professor picked up a textbook and held it out to Scott, who probably would have run screaming if he saw a way to get away with it. Instead he reached for the book.

Professor Xavier caught his hand. "What's this?"

Scott had almost forgotten about the scrape. Even to him the fresh bandage stood out.

"It's nothing. I just—I fell. On my bike."

"You really must be more careful."

He nodded. "I will. It was just a mistake—one-time thing. I promise." And Scott asked for something he had never in his life expected to want: "Can I see the math book?"

Then, "Geometry?"

He opened the book and leafed through a few pages. Surprise and confusion registered on his face.

"I don't… I can't…"

"It's all right. I know you can't solve any of those problems yet. We'll work toward it this summer."

Scott couldn't argue. He and math were not friends, but after two years and a good deal of help, he had (just barely) scraped a C in algebra. Getting an early start with geometry, which looked even more complicated, was a good idea.

Charles must have read the glumness in his expression, because he added, "It won't be your whole summer. An hour or two in the morning. You'll still have free time."

It wasn't _just_ the math, of course. Scott wasn't a full-time student that summer, but he was a full-time mutant. There would be training in the use of his powers, and martial arts with Ruth. If they could drag Alex into it, perhaps there would be experiments with Hank, who was fascinated by Alex and Scott's similar powers and immunity.

"Could we maybe do math in the afternoons?" Scott asked. "Or, um, whenever you have the time. If mornings work best for you, of course—"

"Afternoons are fine, Scott. Do try not to sleep until noon _every_ day, but it's your holiday, too."

"It's not that. I—if it's okay with you and Ruth—Mae said I could help out in the library sometimes. And I'd like to. If I may."

"Yes, of course. I would never keep you from the library."

Scott bowed his head because he couldn't keep from grinning. "Except when I'm grounded."

"Well I might try!" Charles retorted. "Since you're here now, let's begin with chapter one…"

* * *

 

Ororo's summer was off to a rather less than stellar start and she wasn't sure why.

She was a good student.

She passed all her classes.

When she was given her summer assignment, she said as much. "I've never read so many books in my life!" she objected, ignoring that it was only in the past year that she had learned to read at all. "I've never even seen so many books in my life."

"You do not have to read all of them," Charles replied, "only three."

"Then why are there so many on the list?"

"You may select whichever three you like."

She wrinkled her nose at the idea. She didn't like homework, but this was just… weird.

Within a week, she was twenty pages into _Dracula_. Scott said there were monsters in this book. So far there were just thick, plodding chunks of text. She was definitely reading _Little Men_ next—the book he said she would not like.

She was not liking _Dracula_ either.

"Can I stop reading now?" she asked.

"This depends, you have read ten pages?" Ruth replied. She sat in the shade beside Ororo, enjoying the warm day—and enjoying avoiding it for the cool shade. As soon as Ororo finished her reading, they could go back to the garden.

The garden quickly became Ororo's favorite part of the school. Hank had his lab, Professor Xavier had his study, Alex had the garage and a skunk-smelling tin in his sock drawer… and Ororo had this.

It was enough to slog through another couple pages.

"Now can—"

"Sh!"

Ruth tilted her head, listening. Then she leapt to her feet. "Something is coming."

"What?" Ororo asked.

Before Ruth could answer, Ororo heard it: a whining roar, coming nearer along with a growing dot in the sky. As it approached the dot started to look like a plane, though not a plane either of them had ever seen.

Ororo stood and shifted closer to Ruth, who wrapped an arm around her.

That didn't comfort Ororo much, because close to Ruth, Ororo felt the woman's racing pulse. Not much frightened Ruth.

"Nothing will happen to you," Ruth murmured determinedly.

Ororo wanted to believe her.

The plane grew closer. Bigger. And Ororo couldn't stop the feeling that her heart was trying to outdo the speed with which the plane approached.

She didn't expect the plane to keep coming nearer and nearer. That only happened in nightmares. What were the chances, after all?

But it did come closer and closer until it crashed on the lawn.

"Inside," Ruth whispered.

Ororo stared at the half-buried plane. It left a long, broad scar in its wake. She had never seen anything like that. The metal was like copper and milk, dull and bright at once.

"Inside!"

When Ororo raced to the front door, though, she found the others spilling out of it. Some of them looked scared, but none so much as Ororo and Ruth. Ororo gave Scott a filthy look—she wasn't sure why she was annoyed with him, but she was—but reached for his hand all the same.

Only Hank looked wholly fascinated as the ship shifted and a panel slid open.

Anything could have stepped out of that ship. It might have been friendly or hostile, corporeal or gaseous, any shape or size or color… but it looked like a man.

Ororo sighed, relieved.

Beside her, Scott had gone rigid. He crossed himself. "Someone find Alex," he rasped.

"Why?" Professor Xavier asked. "Scott, what is it?"

"That's his father."


	2. Chapter Two

"His father?" Ororo repeated. She looked between the man emerging from the spaceship and the boy beside her.

"Are you certain?" Professor Xavier asked.

" _His_ father?" Ororo asked again.

"Scott?" the Professor asked.

Ruth cleared her throat. "I believe we have another matter," she said. Little frightened Ruth, but from her tone it seemed this had done the trick.

"What is it?"

"A spaceship just landed on the front lawn," Hank guessed. "And considering where Ruth's from, I think…"

"Ah." Charles felt foolish then. He could have been more considerate, more aware of how different his perception was from that of his Israeli… companion.

They still hadn't put words to their relationship. He preferred the term 'lover' but she found that amusing. She had literally laughed when he said it—not unkindly, but he still felt quite silly.

Meanwhile, of course an unexpected aircraft would seem threatening to a woman accustomed to war.

The man who looked startlingly like Alex's father approached, taking his time. It made him seem nonthreatening. If they wanted to take any defensive action they certainly had the opportunity. Instead they stood and waited.

"Good afternoon. I apologize for the damage; I lost control of my craft. I'll do all I can to fix it. The damage, that is, but the craft as well. I mean no harm to any of you."

They all glanced at one another. There was no protocol for this situation. It wasn't every day an apparent spaceship crashed on the lawn. It wasn't every day a ringer for the father of two orphans stepped out.

Finally, Ruth asked, "Why are you here? Of all places, why here, this is not a coincidence."

"No," he agreed, "it's not. My ship tracked the most advanced technology on this planet." Hearing that, Hank stood a little taller. "Earth isn't engaging in space travel yet. If anyone could accept someone who had come from another planet, possibly offer any sort of assistance with a damaged craft, I thought that person would be using more advanced technology."

"You look human," Hank observed. He knew something about looking human. For most of his life, he thought he didn't. Now he _really_ didn't. The man in front of him did. "What planet are you from?"

"Initially," the man replied, "I was from Earth."

There was a pause in which the X-Men considered two things. First, here was a man who had left their planet, possibly their solar system, and traveled among the stars. Second, as unlikely as it seemed—Alex's father was from Earth, too.

Then Charles suggested, "Perhaps you'd like to come inside."

"I'll make tea," Scott said. He didn't wait for an agreement before disappearing.

The group, minus Scott, moved to the sitting room. Ororo found that title hilarious—a special room just for sitting!—but she didn't object to a room filled with soft chairs. Best of all, there was a window seat, which she claimed. Okay, sure, spaceman and all that, but she wasn't giving up her favorite spot!

Charles noticed this and cleared his throat meaningfully. Ororo took her dirty feet off the cushions.

The spaceman himself was if nothing else polite. In fact, he and Charles were about equally matched in terms of manners. He did not sit until invited to do so, and Charles allowed him a moment to settle. At least he seemed to wait politely. In fact the mutants were chatting telepathically.

_"He likely knows nothing of mutants," Charles began._

_"Then perhaps the geneticist should explain," Ruth retorted._

_"Are you going to invite him to stay?" Hank asked._

_"Who said anything about—" Ruth began, then glanced at Charles and realized that was exactly what he was planning. That was so… so Charles._

_"Scott?" Charles asked. "Is that all right?"_

_"I'm—I can't say—I don't know, Professor. I think you should do what you think is right."_

_"He has to know about us," Ruth insisted. "How else will you explain Hank?" Another person might have added that no offense was meant. Ruth did not. What she had said was straightforward true to her: Hank was furry and blue and that called for explanation. "And you cannot ask the children to hide who they are."_

_"Nor should I ask you," Charles replied._

He cleared his throat. "Mr.—ah, I'm sorry, we haven't been introduced. My name is Charles Xavier. You've landed at my school for gifted children. This is Ruth Bat-Seraph, our history teacher, Hank McCoy, science teacher, and—Ororo, take your feet off the cushions."

She did—again.

"Ororo is our youngest student. Most of the children are away now; it's summer," Charles explained. His explanation omitted several key facts. Only two students were away. They were a school with rather specific entrance requirements.

The spaceman nodded as Charles spoke, attentive. He did not look old enough to be Alex's father, only a few years older than Charles and Ruth. Although the lines of his face were similar to Alex's, his hair was dark and his eyes were blue while Alex was blond with hazel eyes. There was nothing either conclusive or inconclusive about his appearance.

Then he volunteered, "My name is Chris Summers. Thank you for your hospitality. I'm sure this is… unexpected."

"It is," Charles agreed.

"So aliens are real?" Ororo asked.

"On many planets," Chris said. "Think of the strangest person you can imagine. Maybe I've met them."

Ororo raised her eyebrows. "I'm African and I have white hair and I control the weather, I am the strangest person I can imagine."

Ruth said something to her in Arabic. Charles did not understand the language, but he got the gist.

"We intended to share this a little more… tactfully," he said, "but Ororo is not exaggerating. There are people in this world with special abilities. In Ororo's case, the ability to control the weather."

"I see," Chris replied, a note of skepticism in his voice.

It was understandable. Charles did the math. Scott had estimated that Alex was two or three years old when they were orphaned, more than twenty years ago. Ororo alone had to be a surprise—schools were not integrated when Chris left. Mutants were completely unheard of.

 _And my ability,_ he continued, speaking telepathically, _allows me to read your mind._

Before they could go further on that subject, Scott joined them, carrying a tea tray and looking like he had never concentrated this hard on anything in his life. He had, but he could be clumsy, especially when he was nervous. Luckily the tray made it to the table without anything breaking.

"This is—" Charles began.

Scott interrupted, "Matthew." He stuck out his hand. "It's nice to meet you."

Chris shook hands. "Chris Summers. Good to meet you, too."

"Dad, shouldn't… someone else be here?"

"Would you like to go find him?"

Scott nodded and left the room.

While Chris's attention was elsewhere, Ororo mouthed, _Matthew?_

The only answer was a look from Ruth telling her to be polite and patient.

"If you are from Earth, how have you traveled so far beyond it?" Ruth asked. "This country does not have that ability now, let alone when you are from."

"It's a fair question," Chris agreed, "with an unfortunate answer and I hope you'll forgive me sparing some of the details. We were kidnapped, my wife and I, by a race called the Shi'ar. The Shi'ar are… brutal. Conquerers. What they do to those they capture…. After some time I escaped them. My wife…" He shook his head, communicating clearly enough what had happened. His wife did not survive.

Charles could not help thinking that apparently this was not a story Chris told often, given how emotionally he reacted to it and how long ago it had occurred. Perhaps aliens did not see other aliens as so strange. Perhaps on other planets, such an explanation would not be called for.

Charles was not inclined to like Chris. The man seemed well-meaning enough, but two broken boys had come to Charles for help. Alex was in mourning for his friend, but otherwise doing well. Charles did not know that Scott would ever fully heal from what was done to him in Omaha. Could anyone truly recover from that?

He was almost disappointed that their father had perhaps the most compelling reason possible not to be there to protect them.

And now he had done it! He had gone ahead and believed that this was their father.

"I'm so very sorry for your loss," he said. As he did, he picked up a caustic thought nearby and gave Ororo a warning look. She was _not_ to remark that he was among good company. It was true that most in the house had experienced loss, but Chris seemed too raw for such a joke.

Charles pressed, however, "If I may ask, how is it you first encountered these Shi'ar?"

"I was a pilot," Chris began, "a foolhardy pilot. We were going to see family when we spotted an unearthly craft. What I believe they were doing is evaluating the usefulness of Earth, but they hadn't wanted their presence known. They pursued us and their crafts were superior. When they caught us, they captured us."

"You and your wife," Charles said.

"Yes."

"No one else was with you?"

Chris had been bent under the weight of memory, but now he raised his head and looked directly at Charles. "You know," he observed.

"If you are who I think you are," Charles replied, "yes, I know."

Chris looked from Charles to Hank to Ruth, searching for some explanation—and Charles prepared to give one. He did not mean to make their guest uncomfortable.

"Chris—"

"What the hell."

Alex stood in the doorway, staring. He looked comfortable and slightly disheveled, a familiar look for him. And shocked, less familiar.

He turned to Charles. "What is this?" he asked. "This is low, Charles."

"Alex, it's not a trick."

"Not a… there's a dead man sitting in the fu—"

"Language."

"In the goddamn parlor!"

"Alex," Chris said, his voice suddenly ragged. Alex turned to look at him. "Alex?"

Alex gaped. Then, in more tentative a tone than anyone had heard from him before today, "Dad?"


	3. Chapter Three

_You know this story already. You've read it before._

_It begins, as always, with a girl. (With a boy looking at a girl.)_

_She isn't very beautiful, but her eyes are soft and bright and full of life, and she smiles with all her heart and soul. She has a more neutral smile when he first spots her._

_She is purposeless._

_Not cruelly, not in life, simply in that moment. She sits quietly on the bench, observing her surroundings while the other young people dance and the truly daring swing their hips to the music. It's one thing to cut a rug, but that's asking a question with an answer you know'll have you standing at the blackboard._

_But she does not dance, nor does she seem to watch the dancing. Nor does she sit alone with a book, a sewing piece, a snow cone—anything that might say, 'I have a purpose to my lonesomeness'._

_Meanwhile the dance is in full swing around her, a mix of GIs and gals too old to be girls, too young to be women. They share the time under a clear sky while the sun sinks to the horizon. The tune from the vinyl is so new only a few among them know the words._

_Not the newest of places, not the center of the scene, this little spit of a town outside Dayton, Ohio._

_He leans on the bar beside his pals, sizing up the dishes._

_"…not much on talk, but she's an able grable if you know what I mean. Other things she can do with her mouth!"_

_That's not him. Our man. He doesn't say that or groan, either, just makes a note to mention later that Henderson takes things too low and too far._

_The note is pinned well beneath thoughts of the blond on the bench. She seems so… present. So conscious. Neither a part of nor separate from her surroundings, not common or aloof. A mystery._

_"That redhead," says another man admiringly. And the gal has nice curves, no denying, not to forget a look on her face asking for attention. "I'd make her an honest woman!"_

_Our man straightens up and gives the soldier a clap on the shoulder. "Gotta be a man first, Linzer. Shaving yet?"_

_He leaves the others laughing and Linzer stammering an objection. Poor kid. Nineteen years old and so blond he has a face like a baby's backside. But more pressing matters arise…_

_"May I join you?"_

_"Yes, of course. Are you looking for someone?"_

_Up close, he can confirm: she is not beautiful. But she is alluring and that voice is so sweet it ought to be rationed._

_"No one in particular, but I just might find them." When she doesn't rise to his bait, he persists, "So why's a pretty little thing like you sitting here all by yourself?"_

_She laughs and, for the first time, he sees how the world lights up in her eyes. "I'm not by myself," she says, "I'm with you!"_

_He rests his arm along the back of the bench. What a coincidence: it brushes against her back, too! And he leans in just a little closer. His eyes might not sparkle like hers, but this close he counts on a whiff of masculinity to act as aphrodisiac. It usually does._

_"Say, you wouldn't like to be dancing with me, would you?"_

_She smiles and shakes her head. "I'd love to, but I don't know how to dance."_

* * *

 

"Give me your glasses, Matthew."

"Mom?"

"You want to be called Matthew, yes?" Ruth replied. "Then we must practice this." She held out her hand. "Now. Glasses."

Scott slipped off his glasses and handed them to Ruth.

They stood in the bomb shelter. These blind training sessions had started a few months ago, after Scott came to Ruth and told her he couldn't be weak anymore. She told him his biggest weakness was his inability to control his power and began training him accordingly.

It was tough. She seemed to have a knack for knowing when he needed to stop and when he just really, really wanted to. He had thrown up a few times, but not nearly as many times as felt ready to throw up.

The sheer number of push-ups, crunches, and sprints she put him through leached the strength from his body. As he completed what felt like his millionth push-up, Scott reflected that he took absolutely no comfort in knowing Ruth did all of this alongside him. Her mutation made her stronger; his did not.

"Enough," Ruth announced.

Scott let himself collapse on the delightfully cool floor.

"Thirty seconds."

He nodded into the concrete.

She didn't train anyone else this way, at least so far as Scott knew. The martial arts sessions with Ororo and sometimes Alex or Hank were fun. They were hard work, too, but not exhausting.

"Five."

How had twenty-five seconds passed so quickly?

Exhausted as he felt, Scott picked himself up. In—

"Three."

—seconds, Ruth was going to throw a punch at him. He knew that. Sparring always came next. Even with his powers and his vision, Scott would never win against a woman with superior speed, strength, and training. At this point, he was pretty sure he could take on Ororo or Alex, though.

 _Nothing_ , he reminded himself.

Had he really just bragged, even in his mind, about beating up his little brother and sister? Sure, Alex's body was older than Scott's, but that didn't change the fact that Alex was Scott's little brother. Winning a fight against him was an occasional necessity, not a point of pride.

Ruth must have seen how he felt, because they spent a good deal longer than usual sparring. Several times, Scott thought this had to be the end, because he couldn't keep doing this. He was wrong.

"Okay," Ruth announced. "Good work."

Scott nodded. The world was spinning. He leaned against the wall to catch his breath.

Only when he could talk did Ruth ask, "Is there something from today you want to talk about?"

He shook his head.

"No? I hear you are going to be working in the library."

"Oh, that." His words might have been unenthusiastic, but his tone and the smile on his face said otherwise. "It's okay, isn't it? The professor said and I didn't think I needed to ask you, but—"

"This is fine," she assured him. "It is a good place for you. You will still come home sometimes, yes?"

Scott grinned. "Once or twice a week, scout's honor."

They left the bomb shelter and parted ways.

Scott went to collect his towel and pajamas. Training with Ruth left his mind refreshed, but his body was an unholy mess. Alex had once commented that he looked like the sore loser of a wet t-shirt contest, after which Scott tried to avoid Alex until he had showered—not because he was hurt by the remark, just because he had never thought up a comeback.

Today he didn't need one. Alex had something else on his mind.

"Matthew?"

It was not a request for attention; it was a challenge.

"Alex, don't."

" _Matthew_?"

Earlier, Alex had only thought up one major objection, besides the charade being stupid. He asked what "Matthew"'s last name was supposed to be. He had no response when Charles said that Matthew's last name was Xavier.

Scott just shook his head. "I don't owe you an explanation," he said.

Alex followed Scott into his room and pushed the door shut. "The hell you don't, Scott!" As angry as he sounded, he kept his voice down. "You're throwing away everything they gave you—you're not a Summers now?"

"I'm still a Summers."

"No, you're an Xavier."

"No, I—" Scott realized he was falling into a pattern and took a deep breath. "Alex, I had the chance to be an Xavier and I didn't take it. I am still Scott Summers, I am still your big brother and I will still kick your sorry ass if I have to."

Alex stared at him for a moment. Scott saw the wheels in his mind turning, but there was nothing for Alex to object to.

Finally he punched Scott on the shoulder and said, "Twerp."

"Jerk."

Alex turned to go.

"And don't make me remind you about that last part!" Scott called after him. He would kick Alex's ass if he needed to.

As a last resort.

Of course.

After he left, Alex went to find his dad.

It had only been a few hours so everything felt too immediate to be surreal. He hadn't thought anything through, nor did he want to. He just accepted that his father had been traveling in outer space and was back now.

A part of him felt like a kid.

Chris/Dad was talking with Charles and Ruth. Alex said hey, took a seat, and did not even try to be part of the conversation. He got the general idea: Charles had invited Chris to stay and Chris was grateful. Chris was also trying to understand mutation.

Alex understood the basics of mutation. He knew that he was a mutant, at least.

Charles, meanwhile, knew everything. "…rate was possibly enhanced by the advent of the nuclear age. Radiation affects the human genome in ways not fully understood, so it's plausible, if unproven, that radiation created or at least sped up the manifestation of abilities such as ours."

"There will be a test," Ruth said. "I trust you are taking notes? He is not a scientist."

"I am… trying to keep up," Chris assured them. "Is there reasoning behind who is a… mutant… that you know of? Why you or Alex have these abilities?"

Charles shook his head. "I don't know of any theories. Not everyone believes mutants exist so studies in the area are limited."

"In this area! For pity's sake, Charles, he does not even know what is Hiroshima and you want to talk about the 'advent of the nuclear age'!"

"Ah, I do know about Hiroshima," Chris interrupted. "I-"

He paused. They all heard the sound of footsteps. A moment later, Ororo burst into the room, looked around, and ran to stand behind Alex.

"Whoa, I'm not a part of this!" he objected.

"He's crazy." Ororo didn't mean Alex. "He's crazy and I don't know what he's talking about! He belongs in a gumhouse."

Alex figured it out first. "Nuthouse," he corrected. "Mattie belongs in the nuthouse."

She ducked behind the chair a second before Scott arrived. He scanned the room. "I know she came in here," he said.

"What is it this time?" Ruth asked. "No, wait, I will guess. Or we can take turns guessing. You are chasing Ororo because she has hidden one of your library books."

As she spoke, Scott crept around the room. He had made the right choice and aimed for Alex's chair, but a few seconds before he reached her, Ororo darted out from behind the chair and across the room. Scott didn't try to catch her. Instead he placed himself between Ororo and the door.

"I told you, I don't have it!" she said.

"Yes you do!" Scott retorted. "You don't even use that bathroom—Professor?"

Charles sighed. "Ororo?"

"He lost his stupid toothbrush," she said.

"How could I lose my toothbrush?" Scott asked. "I don't take it out of the bathroom."

"And you're sure it's missing?" Charles asked.

"It's not in the cup."

"Hey, twerp!" Alex called.

When Scott turned to him, Ororo bolted out of the room. Before he could follow, Charles said, "Matthew, a moment, please."

Scott waited.

"It might be best to use a new toothbrush, do you have a spare?"

He nodded, then paused. "I didn't check," he admitted. "Maybe she…?"

"Oh, I wouldn't think so. One was enough to get what she wanted." Softly, aware that he would be overheard but indicating he preferred no one comment on it, Charles continued, "A lot's happened today. You know where to find me if you need." What Scott might need, he didn't say. Maybe he just needed not to be on his own.

Another nod. "I'm okay, Professor."

"Good, then nothing should distract you from your math homework."

"Maybe I'm a _little_ upset," he joked. "Good night."

"Good night."

"'Night, Mom. Mr. Summers. Jerk."

Alex glanced at his father, then settled for rolling his eyes. He had various obscene retorts… but Chris would expect better of him, surely.

A moment later they heard rapid footsteps and laughter from the hallway. Apparently the game wasn't over.

Throughout his interaction with Scott, Charles had noticed the look on Chris's face. At the moment it was one of thinly veiled aching. Chris had spent the past years believing he lost the chance to see his sons grow up. He had no idea how literally he was seeing what he lost.

They shared a mutual understanding of Chris's loss, and of their awareness of it.

"They seem like great kids," Chris said. He meant it, but that was not what he wanted to say.

"They are," Ruth said.

"You must have been young when he was born."

"Oh, she's not," Charles began, then paused, because Ruth _was_ Scott's mom. Every way but physically, she was his mother. "That is, Ruth and I—we didn't—"

"Matthew is adopted," Ruth explained. She shook her head, laughing softly, "If I had a child at that age my mother would never forgive me. And speaking of things my mother would never forgive me for, I think Alex and Chris would like some time."

"Ah—yes, of course," Charles realized.

"Your mom wouldn't forgive you for that?" Alex asked.

Ruth smirked. "Not for what I am about to do with a gentile," she retorted.

Charles blushed faintly but with an expression suggesting he didn't mind, and Alex snickered. That snickering faded when he realized he had exactly what he wanted—time with his father.

And he had no idea what to do from here.


	4. Chapter Four

"You were three years old the last time I saw you."

Alex wasn't a toddler anymore. Looking at the man his son had become, Chris tried to see the years in between. He couldn't. The rambunctious child they had known Alex would grow into, the years of sports and girls and school…

Katherine always worried Alex would have trouble in school. He had too much energy. He only ever sat still through meals because he had someone to entertain him by making faces and blowing bubbles in his chocolate milk.

It was sweet, looking back. Chris had not appreciated it at the time. Only told the boys to sit still. He wished he hadn’t done that.

"Yeah," Alex said. He didn't know what else to say.

"You're grown now—24 next month."

Alex nodded. "Yeah," he said again. "You're here."

"I'm here."

"Mom's not with you."

"No. Your mother passed several years ago."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry."

Alex just nodded. What was he supposed to say? His mom died decades ago for him, there was no reason to be upset she was dead now.

He was, but there was no reason for it. The truth was that Alex barely remembered his mother, wasn’t sure any of his memories were true memories and not merely suggestions of memories.

"From what I hear, you're in school?"

He nodded again. "I'm studying geology. When I say that I still want to give myself a wedgie, I didn't do academics for a long time. But it's actually interesting."

"I worked with my hands all my life; I never imagined I would have a son in college."

"Community college."

"Still college."

"I'm hoping to pay my own way next semester," Alex offered. He did not feel proud of himself for getting to college, because he didn't feel like he had really done it. He went to class, did the homework, took tests, but it had been Scott who came up with the idea, found the school, even filled out Alex's registration forms and made him go to class. The last few weeks of the semester, Scott tagged along. He sat on the hood of the car and studied while Alex took his exams.

At the very least, though, Alex had that: next semester he would pay his own tuition.

"Last semester Charles helped, but I'm working as much as I can this summer."

"Where are you working?"

"Part time at the drug store, part time at the garage in town."

He wanted to talk about being one of the X-Men. It was the most impressive thing Alex had ever done—ever—and he wanted his dad to see him that way. He wanted to be someone who did things. But what could he say?

There had been a few missions, a few skirmishes with Erik, but he was now in government custody.

Alex barely understood what had happened that day in Cuba. He got the Commies were the enemy. He was a little fuzzier on what 'Commies' were. Mostly, he thought of that day as when half his friends walked away and Charles was crippled.

Darwin was dead because of him.

Sean was gone.

He hadn't been here when the school was attacked.

Was being an X-Man really that impressive?

Alex sighed. "Look, I'm—"

"I'm proud of you," Chris interrupted. "Alex, I know there's things you're not telling me and that's okay. You haven't seen me in twenty years. This, right now, you're doing so well."

"I've screwed up a lot."

"Everyone does."

Scott, he realized, would know what a Commie was. That was a difference between them. When Alex didn't know something, he faked knowing or acted like he didn't care. Scott owned up. Then he went and asked Charles, Ruth, or Hank.

"I was in prison," Alex said. He watched Chris carefully. To the man's credit, he did not visibly react. "For assault. That's where Charles found me. Before I learned to control my power, it… Charles said that until I could control it, it would control me."

Alex chose not to mention that Charles had been completely right.

"My power can be dangerous. When I felt myself losing control, I would start a fight. My fists are just regular fists, it seemed like the least bad option."

Alex knew now that he hadn't been doing the right thing, but he had been young and alone. He did not know there were other people out there like him. Nobody had tried to help him until Charles. Until then, Alex did his best to do the least damage possible.

To his surprise, Chris still did not look angry or upset.

"I was in prison."

"I know. It's okay."

"You're not disappointed? Nobody wants his son to grow up to be an ex-con."

"Alex, losing you and your mother almost destroyed me. To have you here, alive—I wanted you to grow up and you have. You seem to be doing well. That matters to me. I just wish she were here to see you."

Alex nodded, not sure what to say, because the truth was that he had no memory of his mother. He recognized his father from an old photograph—a picture of a mom, a dad, and a toddler he used to think was him. He would have recognized his mother. Nevertheless, both were strangers.

"Before I can leave, I'll need to repair my ship," Chris observed. "I can do that on my own, but I'd rather do it with you. If you're interested."

"I—yeah, sure. Of course."

Except that he did not know the first thing about spaceships, but he could only assume his dad knew that.

As little as Alex knew how to talk to his dad, Chris knew less about talking to his son. Of course he was happy and shocked to see Alex, but he had never been a father to a grown child. He hadn't been much of a father to young Alex, either.

Every time he tried to turn the conversation to how Alex survived or what his childhood was like, Alex changed the subject. Chris didn't push the matter.

They carried on, neither of them knowing what to say but managing to fill uncomfortable silences, until Alex decided he needed to get some sleep.

Chris heard the sound of soft footsteps as they left the room. Mutants were one thing, but that was a little disquieting: one of the kids had been eavesdropping on his chat with Alex.

* * *

 

"Just one minute!" Ororo called. She hastily capped her pen and closed the book over it, then pushed the whole thing inside one pillowcase and dropped a second pillow over it. This room had altogether too many pillows when Ororo arrived. Most of them she stuffed into the closet, but she kept one because it was comfortable and another because it was an extravagance and she liked that.

Two pillows were good. You could put a book inside of one and pad the other on top of it, and no one would know you had a diary under there. (Not that Ororo did, but hypothetically, if one were to!)

"Ororo?"

"You can come in now!"

Charles did. "All right?" he asked.

She smiled and nodded, with the most docile expression most would ever see on her.

"Quite a lot's happened today."

Again Ororo nodded. "Men from space!" she observed. That wasn't something that struck every day, even in her strange world. "I want to see his ship, do you think he'd let me?"

"I have no doubt that he would, if you asked."

"I was on a plane once."

"Were you!" he said, with enthusiasm to mirror hers.

It wasn't something she often let show, but Ororo was, after all, fourteen years old in a world of wonders.

"I wanted to see the plane when they brought me here—inside, where the pilots are, I mean."

"The cockpit," Charles supplied.

Ororo bit down on the inside of her cheek and ducked her head to show how hard she was trying not to laugh. Still, something interested her more than giggling at a double-entendre: "I'd like to see Mr. Summers's plane. That would be even better."

"Well, I'm sure he would be happy to show you around if you asked. Or would you like me to ask for you?"

He made the offer in a tone of authority, reminding her that this was his. This home, this land, it was his, and Chris Summers was a guest here.

Ororo shook her head. "That's okay. I'll ask. When he first stepped out, Scott did that thing."

"What thing?"

She mimed a curlier version of crossing herself.

"Ah. Yes. Well, sometimes old habits do win out."

"Is he a Christian? I thought he was… well, he's not _clever_ -clever, but…"

"Some people are religious," Charles said, picking his words carefully. "Whether or not Scott is a Christian is up to him to decide."

She nodded a third time. There was something else, but she wasn't ready to talk about it.

After giving her a few moments to do so, he said, "We need a new book. This is another of mine from when I was a child."

He turned past the first few pages and began, "'Dorothy'—"

"Who's Dorothy?" Ororo interrupted.

Charles gave her an exasperated look, as he usually did when she interrupted the story. "The protagonist, the main character, _probably_. Don't interrupt." Though she did, often.

"It's a silly name."

"Perhaps so." He returned to the book: "'Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies'—yes, Ororo?"

This time she had interrupted properly, by raising her hand.

"Is that a real thing? A prairie?"

"It's a sort of… flat grassland area," he said. "'Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas Prairies, with Uncle Henry, who was a farmer, and Auntie Em, who was the farmer's wife. Their house was small, for the lumber to build it had to be carried by wagon many miles. There were four walls, a floor and a roof, which made one room'—"

"Duh."

Without looking up from the book, Charles said, "I don't care for that word. 'And this room contained a rusty-looking cooking stove, a cupboard for the dishes, a table, three or four chairs, and the bed. Uncle Henry and Auntie Em had a big bed in one corner, and Dorothy a little bed in another corner. There was no garret at all, and no cellar—except a small hole, dug in the ground, called a cyclone cellar, where a family could go in case one of those great whirlwinds arose, mighty enough to crush any building in its path.' Yes, Ororo?"

"Is _that_ real?" Ororo asked. "Could I really make a cyclone that would crush any building in my path? Even this one?"

"I expect you could," Charles allowed, "and there certainly are tornadoes that cause this sort of destruction, although not in this part of the country. I would take it as a personal courtesy if you chose not to change that."

He read on, describing the flat, desolate area in which Dorothy lived, how she could look and look and see nothing. He described the foreignness of Dorothy, the way her laughter shocked and hurt her aunt, how only the dog Toto saved her spirit.

The foreignness was something Ororo understood, but absolute joy registered on her face when Charles read the paragraphs describing the cyclone. He noticed, and slowed, making those paragraphs last.

"'…in spite of the swaying of the house and the wailing of the wind, Dorothy soon closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.' And with that," Charles said, closing the book, "I think it's time you did as well."

"You just don't want to keep Ruth waiting," Ororo retorted, settling down under the covers.

Charles gave her a warning look. "Good night, Ororo."

He headed for the door, switching off the light as he went.

"'Cause, you know, if she's in a mood she might not—"

"If you had a middle name you would know how deeply unamused I am, young lady!"

Ororo was still giggling when he closed the door.


	5. Chapter Five

Chris Summers was an early riser. Years in the military would do that to a person. No matter what world he was on, he was up with the sun—which could get confusing for his internal clock, since not all worlds had only one sun.

Earth did, however. Of course.

Even after the previous night, Chris was up early. He would have loved to say he was up late catching up with his son, because mercy knew he had missed enough, but besides explaining his prison time, Alex had been sparse with his words.

Not that Chris blamed him. He was a stranger now. Alex had only been three years old. When Chris came home from the war, Alex introduced himself. They had met before, but Alex was only a baby and didn't remember.

He had not been up late talking with Alex—that relationship needed repair and Chris meant to do all he could. No, he was up late because of Matthew.

He was surprised that the boy was apparently the only other person awake when Chris made his way to the kitchen. ('Help yourself' had been made very clear. He got the feeling Ruth did not go halfway on clarity. Ever.)

"Good morning, Mr. Summers."

"Good morning."

Did he always wear red sunglasses? Was that a fashion today?

The toaster dinged and Matthew grabbed his toast a little too enthusiastically. Chris couldn't blame him. Sometime last night, or early that morning, Matthew had woken up from a nightmare—and quiet as the boy was, he could be loud when he needed to. He woke everyone else up, too.

"Alex and I will be working on my ship today. I don't think he'll mind if you join us."

Chris had seen the way Alex and Matthew interacted, the way Alex teased him. It was familiar—there was a good deal of trust between them. So he truly doubted Alex would mind the invitation.

"Thank you, but I have to be at the library."

Chris nodded. He preferred that. Matthew seemed like a nice kid, but Chris would rather work with his son.

When he started for the door, Chris found himself asking, "Do your parents know where you're going?"

Something too quick to read flashed across the boy's face, but he scrawled a note in something vaguely akin to English letters.

Chris began surveying the damage to his craft. With the commotion of his arrival and learning that his son was here, it hadn't taken precedence last night. Now he needed to determine the extent of the damage and how… if… he could fix it.

This world had no space travel technology yet, which meant that if Chris was getting off the planet, he needed to do so with his own tech.

Alex was not the first to join him.

The first was Hank.

"May I join you?"

"By all means."

Chris had the ship's access panel slid open. He understood engines here on Earth: cars, planes, he would even be useful at fixing a washing machine. The engines on space ships were different and he was struggling to wrap his mind around much of it.

Hank stuck his furry blue head in, adjusted his glasses, and observed for a moment. Then he touched some of the seared ends of what looked like tubing.

"What are these made of? They appear organic."

"Good eye," Chris remarked. "They are. It's a technology we've seen more and more lately."

"These ships are grown?"

"No one knows. The tech shows up, but without answers nor even anyone to ask questions of. Kinda thing gets under my skin."

"I know the feeling!" Hank remarked.

"So I stole one."

From the look on his face, Hank knew _that_ feeling less well.

After a moment, he sputtered, "F-from who?"

Chris shrugged. "I didn't know him well. A few rounds of Laser Burst—that's a card game."

"And that's long enough to know you'd steal from someone?"

Chris paused, and turned to Hank. After a moment, Hank met his eyes. "How many men are smarter than you?"

"In this house?"

"On this planet."

"Well, I don't know about men," Hank admitted. "Ororo's going to give me a run for my money."

"I don't understand the organics. Now, my scanners found the nearest technology on this planet to mine, and that's the most advanced. That was yours, wasn't it? What I found?"

"I expect it was Cerebro. It's Spanish for brain—that's Cerebro, a big brain. I built a machine to amplify brain waves. It was supposed to be my own brain waves and that didn't work—it was nothing but an expensive art installation until Charles came along. Between my machine and his telepathy—his ability to read people's thoughts… I don't usually talk this long," Hank realized. "Usually I'm interrupted before now."

"Seems a shame," Chris replied, "you're interesting. What planet did you say you were from?"

Immediately he knew he had said the wrong thing. Hank looked a touch hurt, but not very surprised.

"Earth," Chris concluded.

Hank nodded. "Everyone thinks…" then he shrugged. "To you someone like me makes sense."

"I'm sorry."

Hank shrugged again.

"And not only because I need your help. I can't understand how this ship works, but you just might be able to. Now, the steering and the basic functions I can fix. The engine…"

Hank nodded. "I'll take a look. I don't blame you for thinking I'm an alien. I know what I look like."

"Fair enough," Chris allowed, "but there's nothing wrong with aliens. There are many galaxies that support life and I have friends from planets beyond this one."

They worked together amicably after that.

Just about everyone worked amicably with Chris and he found himself quickly coming to like them.

Hank loved the technology and Ororo loved what could only be described as a climbing structure—not that she wouldn't help with repair tasks when requested, but she seemed to have more interest in climbing the ship and then leaping to the ground.

Even Charles, although his ability to interact with the ship was somewhat limited, showed an interest. They addressed his questions about it one afternoon when Chris was in the mansion.

A mansion. Now that took as much adjusting to for Chris as a spaceship did for Charles!

"…and there is life on most planets?" Charles asked.

"Maybe not most, but many," Chris replied. "There are uninhabited planets in any solar systems, as in ours—as far as I know!"

They both chuckled at an albeit weak joke.

"I've stayed away from Earth," Chris said. "Many aliens do. While their technology is in some ways simpler, their goals are different. Most solar systems have two or more inhabited planets, making space travel more necessary and logical."

"Fascinating. Yet you say their technology is simpler?"

"Or perhaps their way of life. Not everyone worships war and conquest. I'm sorry, that was rude."

"Not at all. I—" Charles paused abruptly. After a moment, Chris understood why.

What they heard from the next room required a bit of attention: "…come a little closer and I'll put my hand here…"

"Aah, your fingers are icy!"

"Oh, sorry. Is that better?"

"Yeah. That's—ooh. Comfy."

"What are you two up to?" Charles called.

There were murmurs and scraping sounds. When he opened the door, they saw Ororo and Matthew standing pointedly apart from one another.

"We weren't doing anything," Matthew blurted.

Ororo gave him the look older siblings give younger siblings who think they can lie well, but can't. She was younger but certainly the better liar.

"Right…" Charles murmured.

"We were just, um, playing," he tried.

"Playing."

"We were playing cards."

Ororo nudged Matthew, who finally looked up from his feet, regarded Charles and then flinched back to his feet when he noticed Chris.

"We'll talk about this later," Charles decided. He started to leave.

"Wait!" Ororo hurried after him, bruising her knee against the door jamb in the process. "Can we talk about my reading assignment? I know you think it's not a lot, but to me it is. And to me it's hard."

"You will have to read this summer. Hm. What do you think, Chris?"

He thought he was suddenly in the middle of a situation that did not involve him. This was between Charles and his foster-daughter. Was this meant as a test?

Suspecting it might be, Chris asked, "What's the assignment?"

"I have to read three books off a list," Ororo replied.

"Do you both have the same assignment?"

"Matthew has his own summer coursework," Charles said.

"Matthew's doing math this summer," Ororo said. "He failed algebra—twice, Professor? _He_ only has to try. _I_ have to succeed."

Chris tried not to react to that. He supposed siblings did talk that way about one another. As he recalled, his boys never minded telling tales on one another. Well, Alex didn't, Scott was more about telling tales from what he learned at school or heard on the radio.

Instead, he suggested, "Then why not make the assignments equivalent? Not reading a set amount, but spending a set amount of time on reading."

"Like five minutes a day!" Ororo suggested.

"Yes, I like that," Charles agreed. "Thirty minutes."

"Aaw!" Ororo objected.

"You can read in my ship," Chris offered.

She tried not to show how much she liked the idea.

Most everyone liked Chris's ship. Only Matthew seemed fully disinterested. Chris saw that Matthew mattered to Alex and persisted with the boy, who always seemed terribly busy—"Thanks, Mr. Summers, but I have homework/chores/math lessons/groceries to put away."

One afternoon Ororo, perched atop a wing with _Dracula_ open against her knees, called, "Don't be such a kitten!"

He turned to look at her for a moment. "Pussy," he corrected. Then he went inside.

Chris did not even try to hide that the exchange made him laugh. Ororo had her moments, but she was about impossible not to love.

The best, however, was time spent with Alex.

It always would be.

Friday afternoon, as the sun sank, Chris found himself asking a question that had been on his mind since he met his adult son: "The people who raised you, what were they like?"

Alex considered that for a moment. "Good people," he said.

Chris paused. He stepped away from his work to take a good look at Alex. "You mean that?"

"Well, yeah," Alex said. "Sure. They were—they lost their son and they adopted me hoping for a replacement. I wasn't, but, well, whatever."

"But things were okay?" Chris asked, looking concerned. Already he was seeing that the 1960s were far more permissive than the 1940s and far more concerned with the individual. In the 1940s, being oneself was not encouraged. Chris found it to be different on other planets. He liked being there, among different cultures. He was, after a long time, happier than he had been on Earth.

Seeing that the United States' culture had shifted was reassuring, but Chris was worried that there had been one more repressive force acting against his son.

"My… the woman who adopted me… she was sad," Alex explained.

Chris nodded. He knew that sorrow well.

"They weren't bad people."

"I understand. Losing your children…"

"Yeah. When this started happening, my mutation, I didn't know how to explain so I took off. It wasn't until I met Charles that I started to understand. I still talk to my foster family, I just prefer being here."

Chris nodded again. He had asked, but didn't know what to say now that Alex was answering.

"Look, it's not like I was—you know, no one was hurting me or anything. It could've been a lot worse."

"Were you alone? When you were adopted?"

"I had a foster brother and a foster sister. It's mostly my sister I keep in touch with."

"That's good, you were able to be close with someone." Chris wondered how to say what he wanted to say. When Alex asked about his mother, it had been the most natural thing in the world. Of course he would ask about someone not present, someone who belonged.

Chris wasn't a child. His first responsibility should have been—was—to Alex.

That responsibility was shared.

"You were so young you might not remember this, but you had a br—"

The words came in a blurring rush: "I don't know what happened to Scott." Alex looked at his father for a moment with an expression Chris couldn't read, then he turned away.

"Alex."

Chris reached for him but before he could do more than reach, they were interrupted:

"Alex? Mr. Summers? Mom says to come in for dinner."

As he passed Matthew, Alex growled, "You mean _Ruth_ says."


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to update this story regularly. Unfortunately I won't be able to update for another week or so while my computer is being repaired (bright side: warranties rock). I'm sorry about the wait!

_When he finds her again, the not-beautiful-but-still-pretty blond, he is surprised to learn that she works on the base. How is there a gal like her hanging around and it slipped by him? And him thinking he was sharper than that!_

_So he sees to it they run into each other again. He manages to catch her after work._

_"Good evening."_

_He expects a swoon. Who doesn't love a man in uniform? Even he appreciates uniforms and hers is baggy and drab. Usually the bomber jacket alone does the trick._

_She glances at him and smiles. Impersonally._

_"Good evening."_

_"We met last week—"_

_"Oh, the park!"_

_He nods. At least he exists! His ego smarts and in part, he admits to himself, because he's a good-looking man and she's pretty enough, but nothing special. She should be flattered by the attention and she isn't._

_"May I walk you home?"_

_"Well… I suppose, if you like."_

_As he walks beside her, he asks, "Have you worked here long?"_

_"Not very. About a year. Yourself?"_

_"Only a few months here, nearly three in the service. What is it you do? No, let me guess. Uniforms."_

_"I paint the planes."_

_"I was close," he applauds himself. "You like it?"_

_"I like the planes," she replies. "I don't get to see much of the engines, but I wish I did. That we build these devices—the incredible power in making a metal machine fly… it's astounding. It truly is."_

_He looks at her differently now. Although not so openly astonished, he, too, loves the inner workings of airplanes. He loves the engines. And he finds himself discussing how engines work with such enthusiasm he is both surprised and disappointed when she stops and announces she will go her own way from here._

_"So what's your first name, Airman Summers?"_

_"Chris."_

_"It's nice to meet you, Chris." She offers her hand. When he shakes, he notices how small her hands are, delicate but not soft. He notices that she grips his hand firmly, like a man. He notices, as he walks away, that he forgot to ask her name._

* * *

 

"Is it rude to discuss your mutations?" Chris asked.

"Not at all," Charles assured him.

"Pass the salad."

Alex boggled pointedly at Ororo. "That sentence has never been uttered at this table," he said. " _Salad_?"

"Just shut—um, stop arguing and pass it," Ororo retorted.

"We're having noodles!" Alex said. "You can't have salad and noodles!"

"Alex," Matthew murmured. Alex gave him a rude look, to which Matthew responded with a firm expression. Alex sighed and passed the salad. Matthew returned his attention to his plate and Ororo stuck out her tongue at Alex.

Throughout all of this, Chris tried not to comment on Alex's behavior because Ruth and Charles did not. He wasn't thrilled with his son's teasing, yet it seemed okay.

They were siblings, he realized. It was okay because Alex was as good as a brother to Matthew and Ororo.

"Chris, you had questions about mutants?" Charles asked. He permitted the banter. He did not seem to approve, however.

"Many," Chris replied. "Are all powers unique?"

"It doesn't seem so," Charles said, "I've met another telepath—a woman who could read minds like I can. Both Ruth and Hank have enhanced speed and agility."

"Alex and Matthew have similar abilities, too," Hank offered. Alex glared at him. "It's actually fascinating, we don't know what causes mutations—there are theories, but no conclusive evidence either way—so understanding how a person's mutation works… well, it's fascinating. Like I said. I've been looking into how—and this is of course strictly physiological—on a cellular structure—they're able to—"

As Hank spoke, Matthew's eyebrows had been creeping away from his red glasses and were now about hidden under his hair.

"Hank," Charles interrupted. "We're a little off-topic, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, right. Sorry."

An awkward quiet settled over the table. Aware that his question had caused this and not wholly sure what had just happened, Chris tried to change the subject just slightly: "Are you born with your powers? I wasn't around as much as I'd like to have been when I had the chance with Alex, but I think I would have noticed something like that."

"Why weren't you around?" Ororo asked.

"I was a soldier," Chris replied.

"Of course, that must have been the second World War," Charles realized.

Chris nodded.

"So while Alex was a baby you were killing Germans?" Ororo asked.

"Japs, actually," Chris said, "islands in the Pacific until I took a piece of shrapnel to the knee. Spent some time over there. I wasn't fit for duty after that and I was discharged."

Ororo looked to Ruth.

"Sent home," Ruth translated. "Shrapnel is… Charles, how would we explain this?"

"A scrap of metal that's been knocked loose by an explosion," Charles tried.

Ruth nodded. "When you are in the military, you cannot leave until you have permission. And no, Alex did not have powers as a child. He had the potential for them."

"Most powers manifest at around puberty, but there is a variety. Hank was born with certain physical… differences, whereas I didn't begin hearing others' thoughts until I was nine years old."

"I was eleven," Ororo offered. "I think, anyway. Maybe twelve. With lightning."

"I think I am a late bloomer at this table," Ruth said, "I was fourteen."

"I wasn't blue until I was nineteen," Hank offered.

"Hang on, you were younger than Sean?" Alex asked.

Hank shook his head. "No, I'm about a year older than he is—was."

"Who's Sean?" Chris asked.

"He was one of us and a good friend of Alex's," Charles said. "He passed away recently."

"I'm sorry."

"So," Ruth redirected the conversation, "what was Alex like as a child?"

"Oh—energetic," Chris said. It had been twenty years ago and he had little time with Alex, but that was not the sort of thing one forgot. "He loved toy cars and playing outside, regardless of the weather. He was happy, friendly, easygoing, just a complete joy. But this was the 1940s—his mother was the one changing the diapers."

Alex liked that a bit less, but he was a good sport about the laughter that resulted.

"What was she like?" Matthew asked. "Alex's mother, what was she like?" He rarely spoke without being prompted and so personal a question surprised Chris.

"Matthew," Charles murmured gently.

Finding Alex alive and knowing Scott might be out there somewhere had, strangely, made the pain of losing Katherine so much fresher. Being caught unawares did not help. Most things Chris could weather easily. Katherine was his Achilles' heel.

"He mentioned her," Matthew persisted, "she's relevant!"

"That's enough."

"He's mentioned her several times—"

"Matthew!"

"And if he was gone so much of Alex's childhood, maybe he would actually know something about her if he was half—"

"Go to your room. And no reading."

Matthew looked between Charles and Chris. He knew he had crossed a line, that was clear on his face. His mouth opened and closed a few times.

"I'm really sorry, Dad, I didn't mean to."

Charles sighed. "I know." He gestured and Matthew left the table.

Yet Chris still wanted to answer the question—not so much for the boy or even for Alex, but for Katherine and for the sense that maybe, if he could just share the slightest bit, the loss might hurt less.

All he could think, and it was not nearly enough, was, "She was wonderful."

"No reading, huh?" Alex asked.

Charles sighed. "Well, it goes against my principles, but I didn't mean to reward him."

* * *

Later that evening, Chris received a somewhat unnerving telepathic message: ' _Chris, if you have a moment I'd like to speak with you privately.'_ The message itself was not unnerving. He still wasn't used to hearing Charles's voice inside his head, nor the accompanying knowledge of the man's whereabouts and how to reach his study.

Nevertheless, Chris had the time. He was in his ship, cleaning up the tools and pieces from the day's attempts at rebuilding. If he was completely honest, this was as much exploration as rebuilding, not only because he was learning about the ship but because he was spending time with his son. He wanted this rebuilding project to last.

He finished tidying and went inside again.

"Charles."

"Thank you for coming. Drink?"

"Thanks. Hm, I almost forgot what Earth alcohol tastes like."

"Incomparable?" Charles suggested.

"There's a subtlety to it you just don't get with the high-proof common on other planets. But there's something to be said for rotgut, too."

They exchanged an understanding look and each sipped at their drinks.

When Charles stated his purpose in asking Chris to speak with him, Chris wasn't surprised: "I apologize for my son's behavior at dinner. I'd like Matthew to apologize for himself and I hope he will, but until then, I'm sorry."

Chris nodded. He wanted to shrug it off if only for simplicity's sake, but this seemed important to Charles. And Charles's relationship with his children interested Chris. "I thought perhaps it was to do with the loss of his—er…"

"His birth parents?" Charles asked.

"Yes."

"More than you can imagine."

"He doesn't seem to like me much, but I can see that Matthew is important to Alex. For that—"

A knock at the door interrupted them.

"Come in," Charles called.

Matthew opened the door and stepped inside, then paused when he saw Chris. He wore his pajamas and dressing gown and his hair looked like it had been washed and then combed.

Casual was not this boy's forte.

"Um—I'll come back—we could talk tomorrow?"

"Matthew, you're being rude to our guest."

"I don't want to interrupt your guy talk. Like when Ororo and Laurie have girl talk. I don't interrupt that either."

Charles raised his eyebrows. It was an excuse and he knew that. Nevertheless, he ceded, "Nor would I. You're still meant to be in your room for your behavior earlier."

"Mom said I could do krav maga."

"That looks like it's complete."

"It is, but I—it's about—" Matthew looked between the two men. His head tilted slightly, the only cue as to where his attention was focused.

"May I ask you something?" Chris said. "Did Ruth and Charles name you Matthew?"

"The other parents named me."

"It's a good name. I wanted to name my oldest Matthew."

The look on Matthew's face was difficult to read. It was Charles who asked, "What made you change your mind?"

"I never did," Chris said, "but I was away when Alex's brother was born. By the time I returned, Katherine had named him Scott."

"Wow, they must have been important to you."

The look Charles gave Scott was part warning, part shock. Scott had lost his temper a few times in the past, but the outright disrespect was new. This was not how he behaved.

"That will be all, I think, Matthew."

Just as he had earlier, Scott looked a touch stunned, like even he could not believe he had just mouthed off like that. Then he nodded and ducked out of the room, pulling the door to behind him.


	7. Chapter Seven

On Saturday morning, Ruth dropped her laundry into the machine. "Remind me to nag the kids about this later," she remarked. Mostly she meant Ororo; no one needed to remind Scott about hygienic issues.

Hank nodded. "Yes, ma'am." He tossed his laundry on top of hers. Ruth didn't have a lot of clothes and didn't like to run the washing machine half-full, so she had asked Hank if he had dirty laundry. (When she stopped chuckling, he had said yes, a little sheepishly.)

"Coming to the show?" she asked.

"Wouldn't miss it."

Hank leapt out of the laundry room. They had not replaced the door after Alex slashed it, giving Hank an easy path to the opposite wall. As he literally bounced off the walls, Ruth ran through the halls. Hank could have raced her directly, but this way was more fun. They had never raced at full speed, enjoying the competition more than winning.

Ruth dropped back, letting Hank open the door before leaping through it.

Scott and Ororo sat on the porch. They had been waiting for Ruth. Now that she was here, Scott commented, "I know she's showing off, but our mom is so groovy."

"Your mom is groovetacular," Hank commented.

Scott glanced at him and they high-fived.

Ororo mouthed 'squares' and drew the appropriate shape in the air.

"Enough time wasting!" Ruth called. She motion Ororo and Scott over. She had a bucket of what looked like water balloons at her feet.

"Ororo, we will need a cyclone."

Ororo grinned. She lifted her hands, guiding the wind.

"A little one," Ruth added.

"Aaw!" but Ororo created a small cyclone nonetheless.

Testing it, Ruth lobbed a water balloon into the wind. It dipped low before steadying and Ruth tossed four more balloons.

"Scott," Ruth said. She motioned to the balloons.

He zapped the first one. Although Scott could not see color, he understood that the cyclone had turned much darker than it should.

"Mom?"

"Well, water is boring," she said. "It is food coloring. Go on."

He popped another balloon and another, but now Ororo retaliated by making the cyclone smaller and shorter. The water concentrated and Scott struggled to locate the balloons within the cyclone.

Ororo giggled as Scott's optic blasts went straight through the cyclone. Some water splashed to the ground, but the balloons remained intact.

Scott looked to Ruth, but she gave no indication of what he was supposed to do. He looked back to Ororo, whose cyclone remained. They were not graded on training sessions, but he understood that he was meant to do his best. If he stopped now, that was just giving up.

Failing was one thing.

He was _not_ about to quit.

After a moment's thought, Scott turned away from the cyclone. Instead he blasted the ground, sending grass and dirt flying at Ororo. It distracted her enough that the cyclone slowed. As the last two balloons plummeted to the ground, Scott blasted one. The second he hit just about as it reached the ground.

"Nicely done," Ruth said.

Ororo huffed.

"Now we will try something more complicated…"

Chris watched the display with interest. He still had not seen Alex's powers and didn't want to push the matter, but he was curious. Hank had said that Alex and Matthew had similar powers—and now Chris saw why Matthew always wore those sunglasses. There must have been a difference, of course, since Alex looked normal.

Since Alex was both working and reluctant to discuss his powers, Chris tried speaking with Matthew about it hat afternoon.. He wasn't precisely seeking the boy out. He simply happened to wander into the kitchen when Matthew was there making himself a sandwich.

"That was an impressive display this morning."

Matthew had not looked up when Chris entered the kitchen and didn't look up now. "Thanks, Mr. Summers."

"What are your powers, exactly?"

"Optic blasts." Matthew dropped the knife in the sink and picked up his sandwich. "Excuse me."

Chris watched him, trying to discern precisely what he saw in the boy. It wasn't fear, but it was close. "Are you still angry about the other night?" He didn't know why Matthew should be angry, but it was all he could think of. "I don't—"

"It's not that." Matthew looked at him—definitely fear. Something else, too, bruising under his eyes like he hadn't slept in days. He hadn't, not through the night anyway. Nor had anyone else. "I just—excuse me, I need to study."

Chris couldn't make sense of that kid. As he headed back to his ship, he wondered what he could do to make this better. Being human in other galaxies made him a perpetual guest. So Chris made a point to ingratiate himself where possible and only upset people if it was necessary (or really, really funny). This was Matthew's home and Chris clearly made him uncomfortable, but he was not sure why. Nevertheless, as the adult, he wanted to do something.

"Hi, Chris."

Ororo was perched on top of the ship, waving.

"Good afternoon. Those were some impressive tornadoes this morning!"

"Thanks!"

Chris headed into the ship, leaving the access panel open. There was more than just repairing the ship to worry about, but he would think about that another time.

He was tinkering with minor controls when he heard footsteps on the roof.

"Hey, Blondie."

"Go away, Sc—."

The conversation was muffled for a while, then he asked, "What's going on with you? You're not yourself lately."

"I don't know. I just feel weird."

"And cranky."

They laughed.

"I'm sorry about that, by the way."

"I don't think you're supposed to apologize for nightmares."

"Yeah, but still. If there's anything I can do…"

"Who said it was your job to look after me, anyway?" Ororo asked.

"I'm your big brother. Who needs to say it?"

"Anyway, it's just weird feelings. And tampon stuff."

"Aaw, gross! C'mon, don't make me hear about that!"

"Hear about it? No one's asking you to shove one up your—"

"Okay, okay! Jeez."

"Are you okay?"

"You mean 'cause you mentioned… that?"

"I mean because you have your panic attacks every night."

"They're not panic attacks. They're just bad dreams. And it's not every night."

It was most nights.

"Whatever you say, Matthew. But you never had them before. So how's the math homework?"

"Not too bad, actually. Hank's helping me, and I like geometry. It's nothing like algebra…"

Chris tried not to listen in on their conversation. They were on top of his ship, but surely not thinking to be overheard. Pretty soon they were talking about geometry and Dracula like normal kids, anyway—nothing to listen in on.

After a while, Matthew left and Ororo returned to her game of leaping from the ship to the ground. She was still doing that when Ruth came to visit.

"Come in, come in. It's a short-term personal transport," Chris said, "so quarters are a little cramped."

There was only the thinnest film of apology coating his tone as Ruth followed him into the ship.

He had not been lying. They just had enough room to stand.

"And you are sorry for this," she said in a tone he was coming to recognize as sarcasm.

"Well I can't deny that I appreciate the closeness of a beautiful woman."

Ruth laughed. "What is it they say in this country? 'Keep it in your pants'?"

"Ah, but you don't mind."

"True," she agreed. "If I minded I would snap something off."

Chris raised his eyebrows. He had met some women in his time who were physically or emotionally strong, and some who were defensive. He had no doubt that Ruth fell into the first category. As to the second…

"Are we still flirting?"

"We are flirting," she assured him. "It is a game, but we are still playing, yes."

"What a relief. I wouldn't want to upset you; I've seen you teaching martial arts. It's not a form I recognize, by the way."

"This is krav maga," Ruth supplied. "I do not teach real krav maga, though. Charles would not like it."

"Oh?"

"In true krav maga, it is anything goes. No off-limits—eyes, groin—because it is… when I learned, they told us we are David before Goliath. Survival is not for honor."

"I think you are honorable."

"I agree, and I am unbiased!"

Chris chuckled. "Are all women this extraordinary, where you come from?"

"Israeli culture is… not like American culture… but even there I am different. This is okay in Israel, though. Much more than in America."

"I see. And Israel is…?"

"In your day, Palestine."

"The British gave up Palestine?"

"Palestine is not India, the British were here as a League of Nations mandate. Although the British have lost India, too, there is little Empire left."

The two chatted about world history for a while, Chris learning of just how much had changed since he left. Not only had borders changed, here in the United States people were struggling for change, too. She told him the basics of the Civil Rights movement.

"May I ask a personal question?" Chris asked.

"Yes, of course. I may not answer."

"What's it like to raise Ororo and Matthew?"

Suddenly the ship seemed much smaller and more enclosed, even as they heard someone climbing on top of it.

"You are asking how an unmarried man and woman have two children who love them, who are not theirs by birth and do not look like one another. Is this correct?"

He nodded. "Well, yes. And…"

"How they think they are brother and sister when skin color means so much to the rest of the world?"

"Also that," Chris allowed, though he was more concerned with how people could build that sort of love.

"We have luck. He started looking after her the day she arrived. Which she did not need," Ruth admitted, "but I think sometimes appreciated anyway."

From the roof came the sound of running feet, then the sound of a thump on the ground. And then, once more, climbing.

"Why did you adopt him but not her?"

"Technically, I did not adopt him. Charles and I are not married, it was complicated, so he is Matthew's adoptive father and we are both Ororo's foster parents."

She left out that Ororo's placement had been telepathically influenced. Scott was in the state foster system in Omaha, a runaway in New York. A few bribes were all it took. But Ororo was in a Catholic orphanage, run by people who believed a good home was a Catholic home. No amount of bribery would have convinced them that two unmarried people, an atheist and a Jew, were suitable parents.

"Ororo is… they are very strong children, but in different ways. Ororo is independent. She will always take care of herself. Matthew is not like this. They needed different things. For her, this is enough. He needs family."

Chris nodded. "But they're both your children."

"Yes, because I love them and I take care of them and this is what matters. But I think your curiosity is more about personal current events, no?"

"It's difficult, with Alex," Chris admitted. "I—"

A yelp interrupted him and Ruth was gone so quickly, he was a little confused. He had never truly stopped being a warrior. After he left the war behind on Earth, he waged a new one against the Shi'ar. His reflexes were good; he was observant.

She just… blurred and disappeared.

Chris followed and immediately knew what had happened. Ororo had been jumping off his ship. This time she landed too hard, or wrong—whatever happened, she was whimpering and cradling her arm.


	8. Chapter Eight

_Chris goes to see her again after work, and again. And after that. Their walks become a regular part of the day, mostly discussing airplanes, but occasionally drifting into other things. He learns that she enjoys reading poetry and works afternoons because she still attends school. He enlisted at eighteen and is twenty now, not so large a gap that he oughtn't look a bit._

_(So he does.)_

_They talk about home. He has three little siblings back in Akron and sends most of his pay home. It's 1936, seven years into a real long, real sparse time._

_"Did you know there was a march on the capitol just four years ago?" she asks. "Had you heard of it?"_

_Chris dismisses the matter: "Bolshies stirring things up as usual."_

_The look on her face is argument enough. She adds words, anyway. "They were veterans. They were given promises of bonuses to be paid years later, they were out of work and desperate. You would call the men who defeated the Hun Bolsheviks?"_

_"Of course I wouldn't!"_

_The veterans of the Great War are heroes. Chris would never suggest they were the same as the greatest threat to democracy and the United States of America._

_But she is younger and a woman at that, and he simply can't believe he is being put in his place. So he argues, "You're mistaken."_

_"How do you know?"_

_"How do you?"_

_He tries not to wince at how he sounds like a child saying so, but it is fair. Isn't it?_

_"Because I read, I pay attention! The government you work for refused to help the men who served it, and this has happened before. From the very founding of our country!"_

_Chris scoffs. Shakes his head. All nonsense._

_"Look up Shays' Rebellion. Try the dusty, un-American section of the library."_

_He says to this things he'll regret later._

* * *

 

Hank confirmed what Ruth already suspected: Ororo's arm was broken. Hank was the go-to medic for scrapes, bruises, burns, and anything involving Scott who was afraid of doctors and syringes. For Ororo's broken arm, they went to the hospital. Ruth paused only long enough to pick up a folder from Charles's study.

Ororo noticed the folder in the car, but it didn't seem important then, not compared to how her arm hurt at every pothole and speed bump. The jolting motion seemed to settle exclusive in her arm.

They didn't speak on the drive. Occasionally the car rattled or Ororo moved and she tried to keep the flood in her eyes to a minimum. She really didn't want to do that. Or talk about it.

Only, when she had parked at the hospital, Ruth turned to Ororo and said, "Listen to me. You fell out of a tree. Understand? You were climbing a tree and you fell. That is how you hurt your arm."

Ororo nodded. "The elm." That was her favorite tree to climb. She never fell out of it, but she understood: telling these people the truth was out of the question.

Ruth took the folder with them. When she was talking to a woman at the front desk, she showed the woman some of the pages. Ororo noticed, but didn't pay attention. They were pages of letters, of course. Ororo was _hurt_. Was there any better excuse for taking a day off from reading?

Besides, the hospital was interesting. It smelled chemical and sickly sweet, like they used the same cleaning stuff here as the orphanage. There were other people, other sick people, though not many. A woman in white called someone through a pair of double doors and a pink-striped smock carried a stack of sheets.

Ororo had never seen a place like this and wasn't sure she cared for it. It was like something Hank would build, only without the comfortable places next door like at the mansion.

"It should only be a few minutes," Ruth said.

Ororo nodded.

"Can I go to the candy machine?" she asked.

"With that arm?"

"I only need one arm for candy."

Ruth fished a handful of coins from the bottom of her purse and, trying not to jostle the injured arm, Ororo walked over to the vending machine.

Using it with a busted arm actually was challenging. She needed to sort the coins by feel, keeping the lot in her pocket, until she found what she thought was a nickel. Nickels were kind of confusing, though. Pennies were easy to sort out because they were so thin, but she always thought nickels would be the smallest and instead dropped a dime into the candy machine.

She bought a packet of Twizzlers, which she tucked into her pocket for later, and a box of Lemonheads, which she was trying to open as she made her way back to Ruth. That took her focus off her surroundings, though.

When someone bumped into her she swore.

The person who had bumped into her stared, not sure how to handle this small, angry girl. She was so little but giving him a very rude look. Had she not been crying, he would have shouted.

She was, though. Her arm really hurt.

Ruth was at her side before Ororo could do or say anything she would regret.

And just that moment, a nurse struggled to call her next patient: "Or… um… Oro-oro Munroe?"

Ororo looked up at Ruth. She knew there might be consequences for this. Sometimes when Scott swore, Professor Xavier threatened to wash his mouth out with soap. While that seemed to be a joke, or at least an empty threat, shouting rude words in a hospital probably topped what Scott called the clogged sink. (Though Ororo had learned new words that day!)

Finally Ruth grinned. "Come on, Oro-oro."

In spite of the situation, Ororo giggled.

The nurse led them through a maze of hallways that all smelled like that same cloying cleanser, explaining, "Before a doctor can see you to set that bone, we'll take an x-ray to confirm and locate the break."

Ruth translated the word 'x-ray'. When Ororo still looked blank, she explained, "A special camera for taking pictures of bones."

Ororo stared, not because of what Ruth said but because of the way she said it. She didn't sound like her usual self—she sounded like Charles!

"Where is she from?" the nurse asked.

Ororo decided she did not like this woman, with her pinned-up short hair and her severe expression—and her assumption that being from another country meant being deaf and dumb.

Rather than answer, Ruth looked to Ororo. "Bati?"

Well, what could she say?

Ororo used to think of her past in terms of names. She went by Squatter in Cairo. Among the Maasai, she had been Wind Rider. Only when she came to the United States did she fish out the name her long-gone parents gave her, the name she used now.

"I am from New York," she said.

Ruth carefully placed an arm around her shoulders.

The x-ray turned out to be a giant camera hanging over a bed. It looked like a torture machine, like in that story The Pit and the Pendulum. (Ororo liked short stories a lot more than novels!) The x-ray machine was not a pendulum, but it looked looming-like.

"Lie down under the machine," the nurse said.

Ororo thought a rude word at her.

Ruth repeated the instruction in Arabic. Ororo took a deep breath and hopped onto the bed. Were they beds, these funny slabs people laid on in hospitals?

"Can't understand English, honestly, the sorts of people these days…"

"On the contrary, she understands perfectly," Ruth replied, again using Charles's lofty, vaguely condescending English accent.

Ororo forced herself to look up at the x-ray machine. Her heart raced, but she forced herself to take steady breaths. Look at the machine and breathe, because if she looked away she was sure it would creep closer. It would… she didn't… it was pressing down on her and she couldn't breathe properly!

The machine overhead made her think of buildings collapsing. The metal against her back reminded her of a car, of a hand against her throat.

"Ororo?"

Ruth took her hand and stroked her face gently. No one had done that in years. Ororo wanted to resent it.

"I can't," she murmured. Ruth could know. That sour-faced nurse could not.

"You have to," Ruth replied. "It's to make you better, habibti."

"Couldn't we do this at home? Couldn't Hank…?"

"No, it must be here. Hank cannot."

"If we could get on with this?" the nurse said. It was routine to her, those x-rays, and a nervous young person little more than an inconvenience.

Ororo shook her head and tightened her grip on Ruth's hand.

"Here." Ruth reached up and unfastened her necklace.

A year ago, when Scott suggested that Ruth and Ororo came from similar places, Ororo snapped at him for suggesting that Ruth could possibly understand her experiences. She said that a Jew could not possibly know what it was like to be Cairene. Now she didn't care that it was a Star of David. It was Ruth's necklace and Ororo squeezed it in her good hand as the machine above her whirred.

When the x-rays were finished, the nurse seemed glad to leave Ruth and Ororo in an exam room. Ororo was glad to see her go, too.

They sat quietly for a while. When her panic receded, the pain in Ororo's arm returned. Nevertheless, she had to say, "I didn't fall."

"I know."

" _No_. I didn't—"

"Looks like a fractured ulna in here," the doctor commented, stepping into the room. He looked between Ororo and Ruth, the uncertainty clear on his face. He didn't comment, though.

Ororo wasn't sure which was worse: the doctor feeling her arm to find the break, or the feeling as he pulled the bone into place. She squirmed at the former. At the latter, she outright shrieked—partly at the pain, partly in outrage at the pain.

As he wrapped layers of cotton around her arm, Ororo asked in Arabic, "What is that folder, anyway?"

Ruth had kept the folder close the entire time, occasionally bringing out a page from it.

"This is your file—your insurance and foster paperwork are in here. Among other things."

Well, that explained why she kept turning to it, anyway.

"Do the others have them?"

"Doug and Laurie's are different because they are only students," Ruth explained. "Scott has one much like yours. I was relieved Charles adopted him. If anything should have happened…"

"Like it matters," Ororo sulked. "Scott looks just like you."

Ruth chuckled. "Scott looks just like his father. How that man has not noticed…" and she shook her head. "How is your reading coming?"

Ororo sighed. "I can't have _one_ day off? I got hurt!"

"Because you jumped off Mr. Summers's ship! But I suppose a day off would not be the worst thing."


	9. Chapter Nine

Meanwhile, back at the mansion, Scott finished scrubbing the last of the plates and set it aside to dry. He dried his hands on a dishtowel, then took a bottle of milk from the fridge and poured a glass.

The kitchen was clean. Scott had no need to hang around. More than that he couldn't believe he was creating another dirty dish! Nevertheless, he set his glass on a coaster and settled at the table with his algebra book. Hank said that a person could never do enough review where math was concerned.

It was true, of course, and Scott had half-forgotten many of the principles already. Or he never knew them in the first place. Algebra was tricky. It wasn't like geometry, which just made sense.

"That's what I like to see!"

Scott looked up from his book. "Hi." He went to put the kettle on.

"You don't need to do that, Scott."

He drew the tea tin out. "I don't mind. How are you taking it these days?"

Charles smiled. "You decide."

"I wouldn't know where to begin."

"I trust you."

Scott swallowed. Tea was a big thing for the Professor. Why was he asking Scott to mess about with that? Scott didn't even _like_ tea. Sure, he made the tea the day Alex's dad arrived, but that was just the stuff in the box marked 'English breakfast tea'. (Apparently that was a thing.) Even he knew it had been under-steeped.

He was fully out of his depth now. Nevertheless, he looked through the spices.

"How are you finding work at the library?"

"I enjoy it," Scott said.

"That's good."

"They have a typewriter and Mae's teaching me to type."

"Is she." Charles did not doubt it. He only said that as a prompt.

"It's funny. You'd think the keys would go A, B, C, D but they don't, it's Q, W, E, R… um… well, that's the idea. Why do they do that?"

"Perhaps you should ask Hank."

Scott nodded. "I will. I'm sure he knows."

"I should find my old typewriter. In fact I wish I had thought about this myself, it would have spared me months of reading your chicken scratch compositions."

"Hey!" Scott objected, but he had to laugh. He knew his penmanship left a lot to be desired.

Charles hated to mention this, but knew he had no choice. They were having such a pleasant chat and he didn't know when he had last seen Scott this animated. Certainly before Chris arrived. Nevertheless, "Are you planning on sleeping tonight?"

"I won't feel right until Ororo's home."

"Hank said she only broke her arm," Charles said. It was a painful injury, to be sure, but not life-threatening. It would hurt and heal. Then he caught the expression on Scott's face and realized, "But that's not what you're concerned about, is it?"

Scott raised his hand to his mouth, then jerked it away before he could start biting his thumbnail. "Hospitals are bad places. Anyway I should put away the dishes now," he mumbled.

Charles went to help him. The tea needed to sit for a while longer to steep properly, so he may as well make himself useful.

"You know Ruth loves you and Ororo. She would never let anything happen to you."

They both remembered the look on Ruth's face the day Raven threatened Ororo. That had not ended well for Raven: Ruth dislocated her arm and squeezed the bones until they broke. The way she did it was unnervingly matter-of-fact.

Scott kept putting away the dishes. It was a nice thing to hear but a difficult thing to respond to.

Charles started to help with the dishes.

"You don't need to do that."

"Just because I can't walk—"

"It's not that. Domestic stuff is, um, not your forte."

"This is a simple task. Even I can—shit!"

Scott wasn't sure what to react to. His dad had just used the sentence 'even I can shit', albeit inadvertently, which was deeply disquieting. And Charles, who corrected anyone who said yeah instead of yes, just swore.

He glanced over and forgot either. Like his body needed to reject the claim of domestic capability, Charles had cut his palm.

"Come sit down. Um, sorry." It was an instinctive thing to say to someone who had been hurt—and very much the wrong thing to tell a paraplegic.

Scott grabbed a cookie tin from the cupboard.

"Is this really the time?" Charles asked. When Scott opened the tin, however, he realized it had been re-purposed. The tin contained bandages, cotton balls, rubbing alcohol, tape, tweezers, aspirin, and a flashlight.

Scott gripped Charles's hand, then took a cotton ball and cleaned away the blood. A second cotton ball was held over the mouth of the alcohol bottle and soaked.

"This is going to sting."

It did.

Scott stuck a butterfly closure over the cut, then a dressing.

"Where did you learn to do this?" Charles himself would have wrapped his hand in a tea towel, possibly applied some band-aids if the bleeding hadn't stopped. And it would have been perfectly sufficient, but not so thorough.

"Hank taught me."

Scott wrapped an elastic bandage around Charles's hand. As he did, Charles realized Scott had become… confident. Not that Charles ever doubted it would happen, he just missed that it had. It wasn't just knowing how to take care of a cut. Someone so injury-prone _should_ know that. It was the surety of his movements.

"This is probably overkill."

Perhaps not total confidence.

Scott tidied up the first aid kit and put it back in the cupboard.

"Why a flashlight?" Charles wondered. "The rest I understand."

"In case the power goes out. I'll finish putting away the dishes."

Charles couldn't argue this time. Instead he sipped his tea. It was cool enough now that it didn't burn. "Assam and cinnamon?" he guessed.

"Yeah—yes," Scott amended. He had his back turned, so Charles did not see him biting his lip not to laugh at the word 'Assam'.

"Well, it's a new one," Charles said. And then he lied, as parents do: "but I like it."

After he finished putting away the dishes, Scott grabbed a cookie and went to sit down. He didn't eat the cookie, though. He set it aside and drank his milk.

"Scott—"

"You shouldn't call me that."

"Chris is asleep. Speaking of sleep…"

Scott groaned. "Can we not, please?"

"This is a conversation we're going to have, unfortunately. Scott, it may be time we took the lock off your bedroom door."

The look on Scott's face was one of embarrassment and defeat, but what was Charles to do? When Scott was in that sort of state, having him behind a locked door was far from ideal.

"The nightmares haven't been a problem in over a year, it's bad now. Worse than before. I'm concerned about you. You told me once that you dreamed about the orphanage. Is that still the case?"

Scott sighed and his shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not angry with you. I'm concerned. You're not yourself since your dad arrived."

"He's not my dad. He's my father. You are my dad."

"I'm touched. But we're still talking about the nightmares. Did Chris… if he's said or done anything—"

"No, of course not. It's nothing like that."

"You've changed since he arrived."

"I barely see him."

That was true. Scott didn't work on the ship. Hank, Ororo, and Alex loved that thing and even Ruth spent time there, but never Scott. He was barely in the same room as Chris except at dinner and then Scott was either quiet or joking with Ororo.

Or mouthing off.

The fact that Scott avoided Chris did not help his case.

"Is this about what I said the other night? About Katherine?"

Charles shook his head, not understanding. "Katherine, who—your biological mother," he realized, carefully not saying 'mom'. "I'd like you to apologize, but no. This is not about what you said. It's about your thoughts."

"The ones about Ingrid Bergman?"

Charles chose not to remark on that. Scott had to be immensely uncomfortable to resort to crude comments—not that it was a secret he was sweet on Ingrid Bergman. Only Alex tended to mention it, though.

"For the past few months, I've had concerns about what I've heard in your mind. I think since you arrived here you have seen that I am not going to hurt you. No matter what you do, I will never raise a hand to you or to anyone else." Charles left out the fact that he really couldn't. Scott was nearly if not fully grown, even if he tried to hide it, and Ruth said his progress in self-defense was exceptional. Whereas Charles was a cripple.

He also chose to leave out that he had once attempted to settle a problem with fisticuffs. It really didn't work out well. Erik was much stronger, so much less merciful… and Charles had learned his lesson from that experience.

"We haven't discussed what was said to you, however, and I'm beginning to think that was a mistake. That may have been the worst thing Milbury did. What he did to you physically was unforgivable, but making you believe you were worthless…"

Scott flinched.

"You are not worthless."

"You said that before."

"Well, if you listened attentively, I wouldn't have to repeat myself, would I?"

Scott sighed in the way that always suggested he was rolling his eyes. Sometimes Charles thought Scott rolled his eyes just because he could. Who would know behind those glasses?

"What I find most astounding about you is that you spent so much of your life with that man and Milbury was perhaps the worst role model anyone can have, yet you are absolutely nothing like him. You are a compassionate, caring person, more so than most. You saw Hank for who he is, you brought home the most bedraggled stray I have ever seen and you loved her, you've taken care of the other students. You have a very good heart and your da—your father causes you to ignore it. You've said some very unkind things to him. So I'm quite happy to keep you away from him, Scott, because I don't want to see you turn into that person. I'd very much prefer if you continued to behave like the thoughtful young man I know you are."

Charles had not expected Scott to respond to that—not the kid who was momentarily speechless at a high grade. He let the knowledge settle for a moment.

Then, more brightly, he continued, "Anyway, you'll need to be prepared to present a much more certain persona for college interviews—"

Scott groaned loudly. "Aw, come on!"

"You are going to college one day," Charles informed him.

"But—"

"No, I won't have that, any of it. You're smart and a diligent student," Charles indicated the algebra book on the table as proof. "There is nothing in the world to keep you from a college education."

He regarded this as simply another thing Scott needed to learn, something he hadn't been taught in Omaha—like self-respect and table manners. Given what his life was like in the foundlings' home, Scott hadn't stood a chance in school. So now that things were better and he had seen that he could be academically successful, Charles felt it was time to start talking more seriously about college.

Scott looked ready to argue. Instead he asked, "Are you going to take the lock off my door?"

"I don't know. We're worried about you—Ruth and I. I realize you think you're an adult, but you still need looking after. I'm concerned you might… find yourself in a situation in which you need one of us."

"I'm sixteen."

"And you've started to lock your door and have terrible nightmares."

Scott couldn't refute that. They sat in silence for a while, until Scott said, "Professor?"

"Yes?"

"It doesn't matter if it's true or not. It always hurts to hear."

Ruth and Ororo returned shortly after that, and Charles still had not thought up an adequate response. Both women looked a bit worn out. One of Ororo's arms was in a sling, but she looked fine otherwise—fine enough to be gnawing the end of a licorice stick.

Scott walked over and hugged her, carefully. "That was stupid, by the way. I'm really glad you're okay."

"Ugh, don't be so soppy."

Ruth gave Charles a look. Something had happened. She could feel it. He just nodded in confirmation.


	10. Chapter Ten

It had been a long day for everyone and a glance confirmed for Ruth and Charles that both were ready to head to bed. Of course, being physically alone did not mean they left their concerns behind them. 

"Was everything all right, at the hospital?" 

Ruth's expression said it was not. She paused halfway through unbuttoning her shirt to express sufficient disgust by throwing her hands in the air. "People are idiots, but it is a clean break. The doctor said four to six weeks with the cast."

"How long do you suppose until she realizes how tough it is?"

They both knew this was not about the toughness of the cast. It was about when Ororo would try to hit Scott—and realize that hurt her broken bone more than his healthy ones.

Ruth just laughed.

"Ororo wasn't too upset?" 

"About which, her arm or the idiot nurse?"

"Either."

Ruth thought for a moment. Ororo had been in pain about her arm, but upset? "Neither. She was afraid of the x-ray machine."

"X-ray machine?" Charles was quite pleased that his voice sounded normal. He felt self-conscious. "It's entirely possibly that x-ray radiation has no effect on mutants, she has nothing to be afraid of from an x-ray."

Although Ruth officially had her own bedroom, she rarely used it and both were happy with that arrangement. Only, Charles still felt that twist of anxiety when changing into his pajamas. He didn't have the concerns most men might feel about taking off their pants—it was his legs. Atrophied and useless.

But Ruth didn't comment, never did, and she didn't say anything more on the x-ray machine. She began brushing out her hair, then pulling it into a braid.

"Why do you do that?" Charles wondered. "Braiding your hair like that?"

"Because otherwise it will be more tangled. You like my hair," she observed.

"I like it loose."

"But this is the problem, hair that is thick and curly tangles easily. And then the brush breaks because I am too strong. So I braid my hair before I sleep."

He couldn't argue with that. Charles thought back on what Ruth said the hospital and he sighed. "I only wish there were doctors for Scott's… situation."

Ruth gave him a sharp look. "I do not want those Freudian monsters near my boy."

Charles responded with an steady gaze. He wasn't intimidated. "Neither do I," he said, "but if there were someone who could help him…"

"And you want me to do this."

"How do you do that? I thought I was the telepath."

"You are. And I am a Jewish mother. You think I do not know guilt when I see it? I think your people say 'do not bullshit a bullshitter'?"

"Guilt is bullshit?"

"Guilt is effective. But you are Christian."

"I'm a scientist," Charles objected.

When he was first adapting to the wheelchair and to his useless legs, he hated getting into bed. He would do an awkward pushing/flopping motion, pull the covers over himself, and fall asleep. Now he maneuvered into bed easily as Ruth explained,

"Your culture is Christian. Guilt is for church. And by the way, you are spoiling him."

"I'm not—no, I don't see that," Charles objected. "I'd like to, but he's never been comfortable being given things. He thinks he's spoiled because he has a coat." 

"Charles, this is not a goal, you are not supposed to spoil them," she said, tying off her braid. Already strands flew free of it.

"That's ridiculous. Why have all this money if you can't spend it on the people you love?"

"We never should have gone along with this Matthew business. A day or two, maybe, but for how long will Chris be here?"

"All right. I'm not thrilled with it. But to tell the truth now—Scott's not ready." 

They were quiet for a moment, both thinking about the past weeks and neither sure what to do. The fact was, Chris Summers was here—and he hadn't done anything wrong. He had been polite and friendly, and everyone besides Scott liked him. They did not want to ask Chris to leave, but didn't know how to fix things between him and Scott, either.

And Charles did not wholly want to.

Finally he sighed and changed the subject. "You said church is for guilt." 

"What, with the confessions and your many sins, you think it is not?"

"No, it is. But not synagogue?" 

Ruth chuckled. "Temple, darling. Synagogue is Orthodox. I am… not." 

"Temple, then."

"Temple is for learning. Church…"

Charles had been to church, of course. His mother would go and he went with her as a boy. The talk bored him and the pews were uncomfortable, but he liked some of the songs. He wanted to like the stained glass windows, but that was complicated. His family had paid for them. 

Church never interested him.

Ruth smiled in a way that sent a jolt of delicious, shivery energy through him.

"You know the story of Adam and Eve? I think they like this story very much, Christians."

Charles nodded. "Original sin." He remembered that well.

"So church is about this," Ruth reasoned. "Church is about the wicked thing a woman did…"

It was a lot less boring coming from Ruth. Or maybe that was the feeling of her breath against his neck, her fingers unbuttoning his shirt.

"…and the man who could not resist her…"

He was listening. He just wasn't thinking about church.

"You see, you are told this is a woman's fault," she murmured, shrugging out of her top. "But I think it is a woman's power. There is a sort of…" she paused, kissing his neck. "…power…" hands traveling lower, really challenging his focus, "…which women have."

"Oh, I am in agreement with you there." 

 

* * *

4:17 a.m.

Charles's telepathy never truly stopped. He was always aware of the tone of others' thoughts, like hearing a conversation but being unable to make out the words. Potent fear woke him that morning. 

Just as it had so many mornings previous.

He shook Ruth awake: "Another nightmare." 

So much of Ruth's life had been spent in or preparing for military situations. She could be up and ready for battle in four minutes. In seconds, she was in the hallway, pulling on a dressing gown.

When she reached Scott's room, she tried to open the door. Privacy was well and good when nobody was upset. But the door was locked and while Ruth could have pulled it off its hinges, she did not. 

"Matthew!" she called.

When she called twice and received no answer, she put aside her mom voice and snapped commands in Hebrew. 

The whimpering from inside the room stopped. Sniffling, hiccuping noises replaced it; he was crying. She spoke to him through the door, eventually coaxed him into knocking to acknowledge her. 

When she returned to bed, Charles was still awake. He didn't ask if everything was all right—he already knew—just mumbled something incoherent and settled against her.

 

* * *

8:00 a.m.

 

Before, Charles used to think that if someone lost the use of their legs, that person effectively had no legs. The legs were like plastic bits stuck on as an afterthought.

He knew better now. 

His legs were still appendages that could be injured or damaged, only more dangerous because he wouldn't feel it. So he was careful and, although it made him feel terribly old, tucked a blanket over his useless legs before making a cup of tea and heading outside. 

He was surprised to find himself not alone. "Good morning, Chris." 

"Charles. How are you?" 

"I'm fine." 

Chris's expression called his bluff. 

Charles sighed. "All right. I'm a bit tired. How's your ship coming along?" 

"Oh, well. Very nicely."

"What do you plan to do when you're finished repairing her?" 

Chris understood the question. "When I first landed, well, crashed on your lawn, I thought it simple. I would repair my ship and leave. My companions expect me to meet with them in a few months' time and if I fail to do so, they'll come looking. Nothing you need to be worried about," he added hastily, "unless you plan to kill me."

"I shall re-evaluate my plans for the coming week," Charles responded.

Chris laughed, but quickly became solemn again. "I had no idea Alex was here."

"Would you take him with you, if he wanted to go?" Charles asked. He knew something Chris did not, though. Alex didn't stay here because it was safe, because he was a mutant.

"I hoped he would want to. All the galaxies he can imagine, what boy would refuse that?"

_One with a brother here on Earth._

"But more than that, Alex's brother. I thought neither of them survived. I understand you're the man to speak to in the way of finding people."

Oh good God. Had Chris just asked…?

He had.

He wanted Charles to help him find the boy who was sleeping not 100 feet away.

Well, more than 100 feet, but it was a very large building. And likelier reading than sleeping (and likelier reading than studying, which he ought to do).

Charles hesitated. "If you found him," he asked, "if, hypothetically, this person had been adopted and raised by a loving family, perhaps had no knowledge of any prior parents, if he was happy and whole, what would you do?" 

"Nothing. I won't disturb his life. From what Alex has told me, there are times he needed a hand. I only want to know that Scott isn't in the same situation. That he's alive and well."

"And Alex suggested you ask me to do this?"

Chris shook his head. "No, it was my idea. When Alex told me how you found him and all the others, I thought you might be able to find Scott, too." 

His voice was raw, almost desperate, and Charles had no idea what he could do. Someone had come to him for help, someone with nothing in his heart but good intentions and the ache of a missing child. And Charles could not say no to that person. 

"It's an inexact process, but I'll see what I can do."

* * *

10:25

 

When Ruth turned away for half a minute, Ororo peered into the mixing bowl. She squinted, pushed back her hair, and asked, "Why does the pancake mix look funny?"

"It's not mix," Scott replied, "it's batter." He sat at the table, reading one of his library books. "And anyway it's not for pancakes, it's for waffles. Isn't it, Mom?" 

"You are such a brown-noser," Ororo informed him.

Scott shrugged. 

"Goody-two-shoes."

"Barefoot," he retorted, poking her in the shin with his toe. "But we're having waffles, aren't we?" 

"Yes." 

Scott left his book on the table. He dug the syrup bottle out of the fridge and ran hot water from the tap. 

Ruth knew that it would help nothing to point out that call it what you will, Scott was useful to have around. Ororo would complain if you asked her to clean the dishes; Scott would not need to be asked. 

She had found the waffle iron pushed to the back of a cupboard. After washing it out thoroughly and being sure it was safe, she decided to try the thing out. After all, who didn't love waffles?

Apparently everyone agreed.

That much was made clear at breakfast.

"Waffles?!" Alex cried. "I love waffles! And Ruth. I love you, Ruth."

"Careful, Alex," Charles warned. "We can't have that, I'm a jealous man."

Alex snickered and reached for the syrup. "I love you like a big sister who could crush my balls into raisins with her bare hands," he amended.

"For God's sake!"

Ororo and Scott bit their lips to keep from laughing.

"And in front of your father."

"Ah. My fault, I'm afraid," Chris said. "That's the Summers charm Alex must've inherited."

For a few moments, waffles seemed more interesting than Alex's balls. Then Scott asked, "Wouldn't that require your balls to be bigger than raisins to begin with?" 

Ororo's hands flew to her mouth as she laughed out half-chewed waffle.

Charles objected almost inaudibly under the laughter that resulted from Scott's comment. Only once it had died down did he remind Scott, "Alex is beyond my control; you I can ground."

"I'm sorry."

The contrition earned a nod.

"I'm sure Alex's balls are bigger than raisins."

"Matthew Brian Xavier!"

Scott looked genuinely sorry but far too pleased with himself. The amount of laughter didn't hurt, either.

It was Hank who turned the conversation to another subject. "Will you tell us something else about what Alex was like as a baby?" 

"He was a good deal smaller," Chris replied, "but very much the same in some ways. He once managed to get into the crawlspace under the house—I tore up half the floor bringing him out! Of course, Alex thought this was a game and kept crawling away."

"Seriously? Wow, I was an awesome kid!" 

"And an unholy terror, son." 

"Must be that Summers charm I inherited."

"Did he do that stuff a lot?" Ororo asked. She pushed her hair behind her ears, though it swiftly fell forward again. "Like the crawlspace thing?" 

"All the time."

Scott focused on his waffle and tried to hide a sense of annoyance—how would Chris know, anyway? He barely spent time with Alex! He was away. Then he was gone. 

"Did you do the middle name trick?" 

"The middle name trick?" 

"Like Professor Xavier just did. Where you say their middle names to control them. Like, Alexander Co—"

"Hey," Alex interrupted, rapidly swallowing his mouthful of food, "you're not allowed to do that!" 

"Unfortunately, he was too young for that," Chris added, "but his mom had a secret weapon. Alex more or less listened to us about half the time, but he always watched his brother. We made it through half our meals as a family because Alex was watching Scott blow bubbles in his chocolate milk."

"What's that?" Ororo asked.

"You know what chocolate milk is," Ruth said. 

"Yeah—" 

"Yes," Charles interrupted.

"Yes, but bubbles? Is that fun?"

"The best," Alex replied. "It's… okay, it's hard to explain, but—"

"May I explain?" Scott asked, but he wasn't looking at Alex. He was looking at Ruth.

She grinned. "I suppose you had best do this."

"Thanks Mom!" 

He darted away from the table and disappeared into the kitchen. Alex eyed the half-eaten waffle on his plate.

"There are plenty of waffles, Alex," Ruth said.

"But his is already gooey with syrup." 

"I will middle name you if I have to," she warned, clearly joking.

"Aaw!" 

But when Alex looked at Scott's plate again, it was empty. Ororo had taken advantage of their distraction and nabbed the syrup-soaked waffle for herself.

"Gnat," Alex sniped.

She gave him a wounded look. "I have a hurt arm!" 

"And a stomachache is gonna help?" 

Alex reached for the waffle. 

Ororo shoved him away, one-armed and all. 

"I'm helping!" Alex insisted. 

"No! Mine!" 

"Sheesh, you try to be nice…"

She bent and licked the waffle from one edge to the other.

"Ugh. All yours," Alex decided. 

Ororo stuck out her sticky, syrup-coated tongue.

A moment later Scott returned, carrying a glass of chocolate milk. He looked at his empty plate and Ororo's grin, then reached for another waffle. 

"Syrup and chocolate, is that necessary?" Charles asked. 

Scott hesitated. 

"It's sugars and carbohydrates," Hank offered. "Based on his age and behaviors, it actually is necessary if you consider his likely metabolic rate." 

Charles sighed. "Thank you very much, Hank," he said, in a tone that communicated no thanks at all. 

Scott turned to Ororo and explained, "It's like this." Then he stuck a straw into his chocolate milk and blew. Bubbles puffed up, filling the glass and threatening to fall onto the table.

It wasn't really the bubbles so much as the looks exchanged, the awareness of how foolish this was and yet how enjoyable anyway. Even Charles could not help smiling at the way Ororo giggled and Scott struggled to blow more bubbles because he couldn't get the air.

No one noticed the look on Chris's face.

Soon enough the conversation turned. It was almost July and Alex asked, "Does anyone want to do 4th of July this year?" 

Awkward glances were exchanged. The 4th of July meant something to Alex and Hank. But Charles was English, Ororo was Egyptian, Ruth was Israeli, and Scott hadn't many happy holiday memories. As casually as Alex tried to mention this, even he knew there wasn't much chance.

"Could be fun," Scott said. 

"What is it one does for the 4th of July?" Charles asked. The holiday meant little to him. Although he spent plenty of time in the United States even as a child, he thought of himself as English—and not British, English. His family never did anything special for the 4th of July. But life wasn't just about him and if everyone else wanted a 4th of July celebration, he supported the idea.

"Um." Apparently Alex had not thought that far ahead. "Usually there's fireworks. And you have a barbecue and… someone else wanna jump in here?" He looked hopefully around the table, then realized that only Hank and Chris were likely to have anything to say.

"There's a grill in the garage," Scott offered. 

"Really?" Alex asked. 

"I didn't know that," Charles chimed in. Of course, he rarely went digging through his garage.

"Mhm. Kind of near the back. We could use it for a 4th of July."


	11. Chapter Eleven

_Chris changes his routine, spends more time with his friends. He misses her. He has forgotten not to talk about things, about planes, about loving to fly. These are not men who talk about love beyond family. Flying itself is, somehow, worse. Before she was with him. Now he is alone._

_He misses her. Misses someone to talk to._

_Finally he seeks a chance to head into town, into Dayton, to the dusty, un-American section of the library where he squints to read between the lines. He has to ask the librarian for the books. The librarian has to check the card catalog. Only one dusty old book even mentions the subject and not directly._

_Chris does foolish things sometimes, but he is no fool. He misses her smile, her laugh, the way her eyes sparkle. He misses the way she listens and doesn't give a damn either way what she ought to say._

_He realizes, as he waits for her, that he is embarrassed by the terms he previously used. He no longer thinks of her as plain. He admires her callused hands and sweet nature and the way she tries, sometimes, to be diplomatic but is too passionate to succeed._

_Mostly he is embarrassed that he once thought her chest an unfortunately wasted space._

_But until she emerges from the hanger a little behind the other girls, two of whom make eye contact before giggling and turning away, he does not realize the most obvious thing._

_She looks at him, looks away, hesitates. She walks up to him._

_"You're here," she observes. It isn't good or bad. It's a fact, plain and simple fact: he is here. Here he is. She is._

_The nearness taps his heart. She smells like turpentine and cherry candy. Who ever guessed he would find himself here, stared down by a woman just barely out of girlhood?_

_"You were right. And the one with the ringlets told me your name. Katie."_

_"Katherine. Marshall. Katherine Marshall, I mean, that's my name, not… um, anyway, not Katie."_

_"Chris Summers," he says, sticking out his hand, "absolute twit."_

_She melts._

_She smiles._

_She lets him walk her home._

* * *

 

**12:30 p.m.**

"No."

"But I feel fine!"

"Good. Still no."

"Well, just Scott, then," Ororo appealed. "Let me spar with Scott. He punches like a schoolgirl, anyway."

Ruth shook her head. Then, in Arabic, she added, "Maybe you should not have jumped off a ship if this is your feeling. And maybe you should think about the way you talk to people."

Ororo huffed and went to sit on the front stairs. The others stood on the lawn, nearly through with a lesson in krav maga. She watched as Ruth said something to Alex and Scott, the only two students remaining. They would spar with each other, of course. And she would sit it out, because her arm was broken.

"I got a follow-up question," Alex said.

"You have a follow-up question to 'you cannot spar with a broken arm'?" Ruth asked.

"I have a general question. What do you do if the person you're going against doesn't do krav maga?"

"I don't understand."

"I think he's asking about the usefulness of what we learn with you against other fighting techniques," Scott said.

"Yeah," Alex agreed.

Scott muttered something softly.

"What was that?"

" _Yes_ ," Scott repeated. "Not yeah—yes."

"Okay then, Professor Junior."

"That's not an insult."

"Well!" Ruth interrupted, jumping in before this turned into a fight. "I can answer the krav maga question anyway." She had noticed a spectator to this training session. Now she called him over. "Chris! Come join us."

Chris Summers had, indeed, watch his sons' martial arts training. Now he stepped away from his ship and walked over. "I hope I wasn't bothering you."

"Not at all," Ruth replied. "I understand you have some defense training, yes?"

"I was in the military," Chris said. "A handful or two of brawls since."

"Good. Fight me."

He looked around, from Alex, to the mansion, and back to Ruth. "I wouldn't feel right," he said. He felt wrong about striking a woman. It was bad manners, besides, to be a guest in a man's home and hit his girlfriend.

"Oh, do not worry, I only mean this as a demonstration of defensive tactics," Ruth assured him. In a conspiratorial tone, she added, "I will not embarrass you too badly."

Chris hesitated, then threw a half-hearted punch.

Ruth batted it away. "I said fight me. If you cannot do this, only say."

Chris looked at the boys. "I would be setting a bad example."

Scott scoffed and Ruth gave him a warning look. Charles would not like that behavior because it was rude. Ruth didn't like it because part of keeping a secret was not giving it up.

"I seem to be interrupting, I'm sure you—"

"We will compromise," Ruth said. "You will punch me slowly, to demonstrate, and I will display how I will block. This is agreeable?"

Chris glanced at Scott before nodding. "I suppose."

**2:45 p.m.**

Hank enjoyed their visitor. Although initially offended by the assumption that he was from another planet, he had come to understand that Chris meant no harm by that—yes, he made an assumption on Hank's appearance, but it was no different from someone else asking what state he came from. But Chris not only let Hank poke around in his ship, he seemed interested. He tried to understand everything Hank said.

He was very like his son in that respect. Not that Hank would say as much.

Even better than the man himself was the technology in his ship. It was decades if not centuries ahead of the technology on Earth and just brimming with possibilities.

"Charles? Do you have a moment?"

Hank found Charles at the window, watching Ruth and the boys in their martial arts training. Sometimes Hank joined them. Even with his superior strength and agility, he found the physical training beneficial. But usually he was too busy in his lab to remember.

Ruth had finally coaxed Chris into sparring with her. Through the open window, Hank could just hear her laughter—not cruel, only pure enjoyment. Sparring was a sport to her. And she loved it. Chris seemed to feel the same. They both sounded gleeful and they moved well together. They were both seasoned warriors.

"She seems happy," Charles remarked, "don't you think?"

"I think she certainly lets you know when she isn't," Hank said. Ruth didn't hide any of her feelings. It was something Hank loved about her. He always saw what people felt, but often didn't understand how they reacted. He didn't need to feel anxious with Ruth. She would feel, express, and forgive.

"Yes… a woman like her should be with someone…" Charles looked down at his wheelchair. Abruptly he turned to Hank. "I'm sorry, you wanted something?"

"Um… yes… well, the thing is, one of the defenses of Chris's plane is a misdirection created by an almost-genuine replica based on an advanced programming system. It's—it might be one of the most inventive processes—it's useless from an offensive standpoint but it's an almost illusion, it can even bring the plane to an emergency landing. That's what happened in the yard. Of course, an innate weakness is the requisite power source and, well, naturally, if it's damaged—the power is generated from—"

"Hank! Hank, slow down."

"Right. Sorry. He's let me look into all of his technology and I've been thinking about how to apply it here, for us. For one thing, the power supply is solar. It would take some adapting for other parts of the mansion, if you were interested, but Cerebro could easily be powered through the same means. You know we've had some difficulty keeping it linked to the generator."

Charles nodded. Cerebro was Hank's baby, created to his logical structuring in every way… which, unfortunately, was different from anyone else's logic. The power supply was often problematic.

"That sounds wonderful."

"There's more."

"Of course."

Hank's thoughts were like potato chips that way. He never had just one.

He glanced back to the window, outside where Ruth had been teaching the boys to throw each other across the lawn. "Training," he murmured. "Chris has technology to create physical illusions. Ever since the attack back in March, I've been thinking about how to modify the bunker. What if we made it both safer and a better training room?"

**8:30 p.m.**

Charles spent a good deal of time trying to catch Alex alone, but Alex had become quite the social creature—and Charles was pleased with that. Not only was Alex no longer withdrawn from depression, as he had been after Sean's death, but he no longer isolated himself out of fear.

Alex spent most of his life keeping distance between himself and others to protect them from his destructive power. He no longer feared himself. That was wonderful to recognize.

But he was tough to catch alone and finally Charles settled for a telepathic approach.

_Alex, don't answer me out loud please, just think._

Some reactions to having one's thoughts read were common. Most people went to the things they hoped a telepath wouldn't notice—Alex tended to call up the lyrics of a rude song when he felt Charles's mental presence.

A few lines and he had pulled himself together enough to answer, _Is this good?_

 _That's perfect, thank you. You're handy with a screwdriver, wouldn't you say?_ Charles asked, and immediately regretted the phrasing. But once Alex's rude jokes subsided—as Charles reminded himself that no one can control their instinctual thoughts—Charles told him, _I need you to do something for me._

He actually rolled his eyes at Alex's filthy response.

Finally Alex chuckled and said out loud, "Where are you, Charles? I'm on my way."

A part of Charles always felt the need to be hospitable when someone visited his office. He usually offered a drink to an adult who stopped by. In Alex's case that seemed unwise, so Charles settled for inviting him to have a seat.

"Do you know what your father asked me for, this morning?" Charles asked.

He guessed Alex was having filthy thoughts, but his response was surprisingly serious. Alex shook his head. "I don't know."

"Apparently he's heard about Cerebro. He's asked my help in finding his missing son."

Alex groaned. He rubbed a hand over his face. "Charles, I'm sorry. I told him about how you found us, I told him about my life, I didn't suggest—but we could just tell him."

"Tell him," Charles repeated.

"He wants a second chance to be our dad."

Alex was rather like his father then. What he said was so honestly meant. It was spoken from a place of love. And it was like a punch in the throat to Charles, because Scott did not need Chris Summers to be his dad.

"He deserves a second chance."

Charles wanted to say no. Alex hadn't been around for those first months. He didn't know what Scott was like when he arrived, how anxious and defeated. He didn't understand that while Chris might want a second chance, as Charles saw it, Chris hadn't raised Scott. Charles had.

In that situation, you didn't get a second chance. You interrupted someone else's first.

"I'll think about it. Now, I asked you earlier about a screwdriver…"


	12. Chapter Twelve

The library was closed on Saturday and Sunday, and Sunday afternoon found Scott outside with a basket of soaking wet laundry. Laundry made him respect water. He hadn't realized how heavy it was until carrying dry laundry, then wet laundry. Water made itself a part of everything and changed it.

Scott didn't understand. As he pinned a shirt to the clothesline, he noted to ask Hank later. Hank would explain. Of course he knew the water soaked into cloth, but how? What did that mean, in terms of science and atoms?

He picked up a blouse and pinned one of the shoulders. Was it supposed to be that… tiny?

"Doesn't look like it'll fit you."

Scott looked up. He had heard someone approaching—someone too deliberate to be Alex or Ororo, too loud to be Hank, too heavy to be Ruth, and too ambulatory to be Charles. And he didn't really want to talk to that person.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Summers."

Scott finished pinning the blouse and picked up another piece from the basket.

"Afternoon. Can I help?"

"No, thank you. You're a guest, I don't think—I don't think my dad would like that."

"Keep you company, then?"

Scott paused. "It's almost two o'clock," he said, "Alex will be home soon."

"It's not that I'm waiting for him—"

"I know Hank loves your technology. And Ororo thinks a lot of you, she's still down about her arm."

"Matthew, I know I'm upsetting you."

Scott regarded Chris for a moment. Then he said, "I'm busy, that's all, sir. I don't mean to be rude."

"No, you don't like me," Chris insisted, "that's abundantly clear. You and Alex seem to be close, though. I hoped we could find a way to tolerate one another."

"Because of Alex."

"Because I love my son."

Scott returned to hanging the laundry. "I'm starting to worry Ororo's stuff shrunk in the wash. She likes you. If I shrunk her clothes and you could keep her from killing me, we'll call it even." He paused again, just long enough to extend his hand.

Chris shook. "It's a deal. How long have you lived here?"

"Long enough."

"I've met quite a lot of people. I don't know that I've ever met anyone like your mom and dad."

Scott nodded. "Yes, but I'd as soon not talk about that."

"What would you talk about?"

Scott shrugged. "Not that. If I tried to tell you everything wonderful about them, anything I said would be… pale. There were be omissions."

With a look of disapproval, Chris asked, "And that would bother them?"

"No, it wouldn't matter to them. Just to me." He finished hanging his laundry and picked up the basket. "Thanks for keeping me company, Mr. Summers, but if you wouldn't mind I really do need to get to my studies."

"On a Sunday?"

"Mom's Jewish. Our Sabbath is Friday and Saturday. Sunday's right back to studying."

Which was fully true, except that Scott did not consider himself Jewish and Ruth did not consider working on Shabbat a sin. He left the laundry basket outside since he would need it when he took in the clothes, but he didn't go back to his room to study.

He went to the lab.

Hank was crouched by a metallic sheet. Scott wouldn't guess what those science-looking implements were or what they were supposed to do. He just went to the wire cage on top of the filing cabinet and scooped up the mouse who lived there. The little thing cowered in his palm, whiskers twitching.

"What's wrong?" Hank asked.

"Who says something's wrong?"

"You always come visit Porthos when something's wrong."

Scott stroked the mouse's ears gently, with a single fingertip. "I miss Artie."

Hank was never sure what to say to that. Artie had been a sweet enough cat to Scott. She never fully warmed to anyone else, but Hank liked dusting off old knowledge to help make an organic flea repellent. She had not made a big difference for him, Charles, or the other students, but she meant so much to Scott.

"Everything changes, Hank."

"That's why I like my lab," Hank replied. "Too many factors outside, too many forces at work… but science moves at its own pace, always fitting."

"I'm not as clever as you."

"Most people aren't," Hank said. "You have to stop saying things like that. You make it sound like you don't matter just because I'm smarter than you. You matter to a lot of people. And being smart isn't everything."

"You love your experiments," Scott pointed out. He ignored the part about not putting himself down, but then, they had both expected him to.

Hank agreed, "I do, but for most of my life I was alone and not only because of my mutation. Intelligence means being weird and isolated. Lonely. There are more important things than being smart."

Scott wasn't sure what to say to that. Everyone wanted to be smart. Didn't they? He had always known—not thought, but known it like a fact—that he was dim. He had been told it at school. It seemed like being smart was everything, despite what Hank said.

But who knew more about being smart than Hank?

"Do you think knowing more makes you happier?"

"Yes. I was even thinking about going back to college before, well."

"But—I mean, not you like _you_ , you like anybody. You and the Professor…"

"We're not actually talking about Charles and me, are we?" Hank asked.

Scott shook his head. "Is it really better to go to college, though?"

"Why wouldn't you want to go to college? It's an opportunity everyone should have and it's what Charles wants for you."

"Yeah, but… I just don't want to go. But then I look at Alex. I love Alex, but I don't want to be like him. But I'm _not_ like you. When you talk, people know you're smart. I talk and I just sound like a kid."

"Part of that's your age. You are a kid."

"I guess I can't argue with that," Scott agreed. He was and wasn't a teenager, but he certainly had the looks of one. To anyone who met him, he was a sixteen-year-old boy. "But what if you don't go to college? I was gonna join the Army, but I can't do that now, not with…" Scott touched his glasses. He couldn't complete a vision test.

"You know, you can study whatever you like in college. Just because Charles and I studied sciences doesn't mean you have to. There are degrees in literature, philosophy…"

"It's not that." Mixed up, Scott changed the subject: "What are you working on?"

Hank looked up from his pane of shimmering metal. "I'm trying to amplify Cerebro."

"Amplify it?" Scott asked. "Is that safe? Cerebro is already hard on the Professor." He had seen Cerebro used only a handful of times. It left Charles wrung out. Always.

"If what I'm doing works, the machine will be more… user-friendly. Right now it's a brute force approach, Cerebro amplifies his brainwaves but he controls them. If I can build it to guide him, the machine could handle the heavy lifting. Something like Cerebro, it'll never be easy to use, but it won't be as draining."

Scott nodded, looking unconvinced. "Hank… he's not as strong as he wants us to think."

"I know."

Hank knew better than Scott did, in fact. Hank had been the one to stay.

After Erik and Raven and Alex and Sean moved on, while Charles was still in the hospital, Hank stayed. Of course he knew what made Alex and Sean leave, knew he wasn't given the same treatment because of his looks. Telepathically encouraging Alex and Sean to get out into the world was one thing; Charles never would have done that to Hank.

So he had seen Charles low. He had seen Charles lost, down, and in a state of almost-perpetual drunkenness. Hank knew very well how vulnerable Charles was.

"The modifications are to ease his interactions with Cerebro," Hank explained. "Charles can be stubborn and I don't think there's much chance of him not using Cerebro—this way he won't hurt himself."

"Oh. That's a good idea."

Scott wasn't ready to apologize yet and Hank heard as much in his tone. That was okay. They'd argued a little; this was nothing.

"Hey, why don't you check on my other project?"

"What other project?"

Hank indicated a table in the corner. The table was covered with old newspapers. Hank was brilliant and his experiments often produced incomprehensible results. This time he had what looked like the world's most depressing mobile: wire hangers with wire rods hanging from them.

"What are—aw, way far out! For Saturday?"

Hank nodded. "I wanted to try something else, but I need supplies."

"Something you can't order?"

"For Saturday?"

"Fair enough. Make me a list, I'll take care of it tomorrow."

There was a pause. Hank was trying to find a way to say something.

Scott chuckled. "Go ahead."

"I know it's Sunday."

"And summer. Go ahead."

Not that Scott understood a word of it—well, not enough words to make a sentence out of—but he listened to Hank's enthusiastic chemistry lecture. Only after Hank had worn out the subject of oxidizers and "adequately even assurances in proportional distribution" did Scott move to deposit Porthos back in the cage.

"You've been working on Mr. Summers's ship, right?"

"Yes."

"Do you think it'll be fixed soon?"

"I don't know. Spaceships are pretty solidly outside my area of expertise."

"Do you remember when I first came here?"

"You mean when you told me I was purple?"

"You are purple—"

"Or when you hadn't heard of evolution?"

"Not that—"

"Ah. So when you were uncomfortable because you thought me and Charles were lovers?"

"No I didn't—wasn't!" Scott objected, blushing. "I mean when you told me that people are made from the ashes of dying stars."

"'Ashes' is something of a metaphor. Otherwise that's true."

"So we've all traveled in space, in some sense."

"I suppose, at our most basic level, one might say. Although not in a ship. Scott, are you asking me when your dad—"

"He's not my dad."

Hank opened his mouth to correct Scott and wisely decided on another course. "Are you asking me when Mr. Summers will be gone because you want him to leave or because you're working up the nerve to talk to him?"

Scott shrugged. "Alex is doing better. Alex is doing a lot better."

Not sure what to say to that, Hank changed the subject: "I've made progress on a cure for your… condition. It's not finished yet, but I want to run some tests on different cells." He had already vaulted across the room as he said this, and now perched atop a filing cabinet, rifling through one of the drawers.

"Okay," Scott agreed, rolling up his sleeve.

"Oh, no, not blood," Hank assured him. "Skin cells."

"Skin cells?" Scott repeated. He imagined Hank would take those by peeling off a layer of his skin with the same tool Ruth used to peel potatoes and carrots.

"It won't hurt."

Scott had heard that before.

Hank hopped across the room again, seeing no reason to walk when he could use aerial somersaults. "It won't," he repeated. That was the downside to being both a scientist and friends with Scott. The kid believed everything he said, until it was personal—and Hank disliked people not believing him.

Not because he would hurt Scott, he wouldn't, just because he disliked being doubted. He was right.

Almost always.

"Open your mouth."

Officially, Hank had no training in this—but as a buccal swab was something most high school freshmen did themselves in biology class, he wasn't concerned. It was a three-second process of brushing a q-tip against the inside of Scott's cheek, and Hank had all the skin cells he needed. He dropped the q-tip in a vial and capped it.

"That's it."

"Really?"

"Finished. You'll be seventeen before you know it."


	13. Chapter Thirteen

_They begin to walk closer to one another, until her pinkie brushes his as if by accident, until they come so close their hands cannot fit and must be intertwined, drawn to one another like gravity._

_The sad truth is that even now, even days as bare as these, courting is costly. A man brings a woman things. Chris never had the scratch for it, not with his family needing him, but Katherine is different._

_She only wants him._

_And, increasingly so, he wants her._

_He feels like he's a teenager again, only that instead of wanting someone—anyone—he wants her. Desire concentrates to an aching point. Tough as diamond. Hot as coal._

_Stolen moments aren't enough. Her hand in his, his arm around her shoulders… it's never enough. She stays late, gives them a few quiet moments with the other girls gone, and leaves slim, tiny finger-shaped bruises she holds him so tightly when they kiss._

_Until the day he stumbles back, shocked at himself, at the sound of ripping fabric._

_"Katherine." He looks at the tear below her collar. Looks at his hands. The worst part: he feels this same ache for her. And ashamed of it._

_Chris grew up in the church. He learned that lust was a sin. Then he learned what lust was and had to wonder how this could be wrong. Stunned, staring, he understands._

_She shakes her head. "No…"_

_He takes a step back, puts more distance between them. "I'm sorry."_

_"No, Chris, don't—!"_

_Still shaking his head, he walks away._

_But he sees her the next day. She sits with two other factory gals, and how is it the gals always look fresh as daisies while he's sweating out mile 4 of a fun run?, but they pass just close enough that when she flips up her collar he sees the pure white thread stitched over the tear._

_She smiles, flashes a wolfish hint of canine._

_Suddenly this run really is fun._

* * *

 

Once Charles approved the idea of an extended underground facility and Chris approved the use of his technology, there was no good reason to wait. Charles made some calls on Monday and on Tuesday a small work crew would arrive to begin excavating.

"How did you explain it?" Ororo asked.

"We told them we wanted to expand our current nuclear shelter," Charles replied. "Now, Matthew, you cut the deck—like this," he demonstrated, then handed the cards to Scott, who separated it into two roughly even halves. Scott ended up with an ace and Charles with a queen.

"Aces high or low?"

"Low, which gives you first move."

It was Monday evening. Charles and Scott sat on opposite sides of the chess board in Charles's study, though the chess pieces themselves were put away. In their place was a cribbage board. About a third the width and the same length as the chess board, the cribbage board featured a three-lane pathway of pegholes.

"I thought you said nothing could bust through the nuclear shelter," Ororo persisted. "You said Scott and Alex's powers were safe in there."

"Alex and Matthew's powers are safe there."

Charles took the deck, shuffled, and dealt six cards to himself and Scott. As he did, he continued to explain, "Alex and Matthew produce energy—and, in Alex's case, heat—which is different from physical force. How's your reading?"

"Boring."

"Let me see." Scott held out his hand and Ororo passed over the book. " _Boring_? Stuff's just heating up! Plus isn't this right after the, uh… there's an encounter with three ladies…"

"Which is not as interesting as it could be," Ororo retorted, grabbing the book back, "and Mina is a whiny pain." Nevertheless, she returned to her book. She had not done her reading that day.

"Now…" Charles explained the rules of cribbage, which came with so much new terminology it was all Scott could do to smile and nod—then look confused and nod. Charles chuckled. "Let's cover the rules as we play, shall we?"

"That sounds much better," Scott agreed.

They played for a while, moving pegs along the board in what seemed to Scott a terribly elaborate exercise to make him practice basic math.

Finally, he mentioned what was worrying him: "But all these new people? Strangers? Me and Ororo are one thing, we just look a little odd. How can we explain someone who looks like Hank does—or the spaceship on the front lawn?"

"I can easily enough conceal that with telepathy."

Scott nodded.

Charles thought the mattered finished.

The next day he thought otherwise.

When Scott did not arrive for his geometry lesson, Charles sought him out. It wasn't like Scott to skip lessons, even math, and Charles found himself worried. And he found Scott, skulking around down the hall from the builders.

Apparently he had been unable to deny his curiosity after delivering a packet of supplies to Hank.

The second day, Scott suggested, "Maybe I could spend some extra time at the library."

"You're there every day," Charles pointed out.

"Did anyone ever tell _you_ that?" Scott retorted. He looked up from his geometry workbook, a smart-aleck expression on his face. "Too much time in the lab?"

Charles sighed. "I suppose they did," he agreed, "but I wasn't neglecting my studies."

"And I won't," Scott promised.

Charles raised an eyebrow. This felt an awful lot like a conversation they were having instead of studying.

"You would have more time for yourself," Scott offered. He must have seen that this fell on deaf ears, because he added quickly, "Or you could do something with Ororo. I think she'd like that. You do math with me, but she reads by herself."

"That's not true. She reads with Ruth."

Scott's tone was not especially judgmental, but to Charles it felt like criticism. He had never been particularly fond of criticism.

"Ruth trains me," Scott said.

"I know she does."

"Every night. Except Friday."

"Yes, she's particular about that."

Scott set his pencil down. He wasn't doing math now. "Does she tell you about that?"

"Believe it or not, we do have things to talk about besides you."

"She takes my glasses," Scott said. It had the effect he wanted: Charles was really paying attention now. "Then she fights me. Without my glasses."

Charles took a deep breath. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I knew you wouldn't like it. You want me to be happy and well-educated, like you are. Ruth wants me to be strong, like she is. And when me and Ororo were attacked in town, I couldn't even run away without her leading me. Now I can. I can move and fight without my glasses, if I need to, because Ruth trains me the way she does."

"Happy and well-educated?" Charles asked.

_Not as happy as you would be without me._

"You have a doctorate from Oxford."

Charles was always surprised at how well Scott concealed that. Looking at the boy now, he could have sworn this was a light-hearted teenager. He was halfway smiling, maybe a little preoccupied. And he genuinely believed that he was a burden to the first person to keep him without using him.

Scott was a preoccupation. He was not a burden.

Charles couldn't explain that without acknowledging his awareness of Scott's thoughts and feelings. He couldn't do that. He didn't know how to help Scott, so he avoided the matter.

He leaned back. "You can have both. You can be strong and well-educated and happy."

"I'm" _stupid_ "not sure I…" _can be happy_ "um… but the point was that Ruth trains me and you teach me. Maybe you could do something with Ororo, too. I think she'd like that. Even though she'd probably act like she didn't."

Charles wanted to object that he didn't actively avoid Ororo and he did work with her, but he understood. He spent a lot of time with Scott, dedicated time to a specific end, whereas most of his interactions with Ororo were casual. Though it was worth noting that her needs were different to his.

"You have a point," Charles said, "but you need to understand something. I've told you before that life is not a zero-sum game. You don't need to give up this time for me to work with Ororo."

"It's… not that. I mean, a little bit—if you wanted—"

"I don't."

"I just… don't… I don't like the builders," Scott admitted. Suddenly he was much more interested in his geometry work.

Of course he didn't.

"Why?"

Scott shrugged. "I understand that this is important. Hank talked to me about Cerebro—I would never do anything to interfere with his work. Or yours. I want some distance for myself, that's all. And I'm learning so much at the library."

Charles considered that. He liked Scott spending time at the library. He had always been fascinated by genetics, by change, by how people became what they were. Hank was driven by a need to understand how everything worked. And Scott… would never be a scientist. But he had the makings of a fantastic English teacher.

Of course Charles assumed Scott would teach. The school would grow again, there would be more students, and yes he would hire others as teachers if needed, but he assumed Scott would stay. Wouldn't leave home. Ororo might, too, of course, though her future could be more difficult to picture.

But there were limits to the eccentricities he would accept without question.

"Why don't you like the builders?"

"I don't know."

"Scott."

"You know how… you and Hank… you barely ever raise your voices?"

Charles nodded. He liked to think of himself as controlled. When losing your temper can mean a psychic blast of pain, 'control' is important.

"Raised voices make me uncomfortable." Scott nodded like he was agreeing with himself—or reassuring himself. He swallowed, half shook his head, and added, "Especially men."

Oh, this boy…

"Talk to Mae. If she agrees to keep you on for extra hours, you have my permission."

* * *

 

Although Scott seemed uncomfortable with the builders, Ororo was fascinated by them. She was often nearby, watching the excavation. Hank had suggested a quite deep pit and Ororo wasn't sure why, she just liked watching the hole disappear deeper and deeper into the ground.

One night, she stared into it. The darkness fascinated her. The nothingness. She waited for her eyes to adjust. So far they had given her a few outlines and she knew they would give her more.

"You should be careful. It's a big fall."

Ororo shrugged, though she doubted Chris would see it in the dimness. "I am careful."

"I'm sure you are."

She had heard him approach but chosen not to walk away. Now she wondered, "Why does it need to be so deep?"

"Have you asked Hank? I understand he designed it."

Ororo shook her head. "No. Will you tell me something, honestly?"

Chris hesitated, then took a seat beside Ororo. "What would you like me to tell you?"

"Do you like me?"

"Of course I do."

"And you are saying so because I'm fourteen and you think I'm a kid. But do you _actually_ like me, for who I am?" Ororo had noticed that adults in this country were not overly honest with children. She wasn't sure when it changed, because Alex was very straightforward with them and Hank was a terrible liar, but even Ruth told the same old fibs.

Nobody said they disliked a child.

"Try not to faint from the shock," Chris retorted, "but yes, I actually like you for who you are. You're clever and you speak your mind."

Ororo sighed. "People don't like that," she said. "They didn't like it back in Africa, either." In Egypt, she learned to hold her tongue around tourists, back in the very early days when she begged instead of stealing. It had been the same among the Maasai. Although the behavior was somewhat overlooked in the girl who rode the wind, girls in general were not encouraged to voice their opinions.

"That may be," Chris allowed, "but they still like you. Most people shouldn't speak their minds because they don't have minds to speak. You're not like that."

"I know I'm smart, that's not a question. It's just… I've never been an adult in this country, only a kid. Or in any country. I'm a girl and I'm black, do you know what black women do in this country? Not much! If I want to amount to anything, I can either stay here, or go out there and fight for every inch. They expect me to stay."

Chris was out of his depth. He had two sons whom he loved, but he hadn't been there to raise them, didn't know how to talk to teenagers. Even more so, he didn't know how to talk to teenage girls. He had not been lying when he said he liked Ororo, though, and for her he tried.

"Do you want to stay?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I don't know what I want to do. I could become a doctor—I'm smart and I would fight for it, but I don't _want_ to be a doctor. I don't know what I want. I know I didn't have these questions before."

"It sounds like," Chris said, his words carefully measured, "what you really want is options."

"No I—well. Yes. I do," Ororo admitted. "I want to stay here, but I don't want to have to stay here. Your sons—nice and all," she quickly changed what she had meant to say. Son's, not sons. "But Alex really doesn't know how good he has it being a white boy. Not that there's anything _wrong_ with being African or being a girl. It's wrong that he just has to try a little bit and things just come to him."

"Alex is trying very hard."

She sighed. " _Now._ " And it wasn't fair. Things were falling into place as Alex started trying.

"I'd like to tell you something personal, but I want your word that this will stay between us."

Ororo nodded, but it was dark out. It probably wasn't so dark that she needed to say it aloud, but she did anyway: "It will."

"I know a woman very much like you—her name is Hepzibah. She's a Mephistoid. Her planet is as good as gone, her people with it, and surviving that loss has made her strong. Sometimes she can be cold and angry, she's had to be and it's a tough habit to break, but I don't know if surviving gave her her spirit or she survived because of it, but…. So it's unfair, I know that, but maybe you've made it this far because you're already a fighter. I think that's something you do without even thinking about it."

Ororo considered that. She did not think of herself as a fighter, but she did think of herself as tough. She survived the desert, killer robots, horrible men and blasts of lightning.

She wondered why. Why did she have to survive a childhood on the streets of Cairo, why did Ruth have to see so many wars, why did Hepzibah lose her planet? Why did women have to be strong and men just had to be?

"Is it a secret because you don't want Alex knowing you've got a lover?" she wondered.

Chris hid his surprise poorly. "Who says she's my lover?" he retorted.

Ororo laughed. "You sound like Charles does when he talks about Ruth. If she's not your lover, you really, _really_ want her to be."

 


	14. Chapter Fourteen

After her conversation with Mr. Summers the previous day, Ororo no longer felt able to stay at home. She had been frustrated for a while that she felt like she couldn't leave home without her mother holding her hand, but having it said aloud—even by herself—turned it into a challenge.

She barely left the mansion, or at least the grounds. Every time, someone was with her. But she was fourteen! She had taken care of herself for years!

So she went for a walk into town. It was a lot further away than it seemed when someone was driving and Ororo considered pulling breezes to cool the weather around herself. The weather was blistering. She refused to do it, though. She had walked across the desert when she was only eleven! (Maybe twelve, she wasn't sure.)

New York in July was a miserable time for any activity and by the time she reached the town, Ororo's shirt was soaked with sweat. Her hair, too long and loose because she couldn't tie a ponytail one-handed, hung damp around her face.

She did not want to go into the library, so she waited outside. But it was so hot. Sweat soaked into her clothes and rolled down her arms and legs. It made the back of her knees itch, but her arm was worse. She itched under her cast.

Finally she sighed and stomped toward the door. At least she would be out of the direct sunlight.

Her eyes needed a moment to adjust. The library was well-lit for a building, but nothing against the sun. So she stood, blinking until some of the shadows took form. Then she stood a little longer because she did not know where to go.

"Hello there."

Ororo looked at the woman behind the desk. She was ancient, possibly the oldest person Ororo had ever seen, with wrinkles in her fragile skin. She had a pair of glasses hanging from a delicate chain around her neck.

"You're Scott's friend, aren't you?"

Ororo stepped nearer. "Yes. I wasn't looking for, um, any books or anything. I don't like to read. I mean, is he here?"

"He's here," the librarian confirmed. Even her voice sounded papery, though not weak. "He'll only be another minute. Now what do you mean by that, you don't like to read?"

"I don't enjoy it."

"Why is that?" She sounded genuinely confused, not challenging Ororo but trying to understand.

Ororo thought for a moment, because that was a difficult question and she felt it had been asked so respectfully she did not want to answer poorly. The librarian was easily one of the oldest people she had ever met. Being spoken to with respect by someone so mature was a shock. Ororo was meant to respect her, not the other way around!

"It's not real," she said, at last. "I'm reading something now and it only takes the most boring pieces of the world. All these dull letters and the main character is a solicitor. Which I think is some sort of bookkeeper."

There was something else she did not care for about reading. It was different when someone read to her. She could have simply interrupted Charles to ask what a solicitor was, but she didn't know how to introduce it into the conversation now.

"You can read pages and pages, and it's not written to be read. You read and then don't know what you read. Now some lady has, I don't know, tuberculosis I think."

She also liked the word 'tuberculosis'. It was fun to say.

"Lucy Westenra," the librarian said.

"Yes. How did you know?"

The woman only smiled in a way that was either smug or enigmatic. Before Ororo could decide which, an office door opened behind her and out stepped Scott. He paused when he saw Ororo.

"Hey."

"Hey," she said back.

Scott looked between Ororo and the librarian. He held his questions.

They made a stop after the library.

"What's your favorite junk food?" Scott asked.

Ororo shrugged.

"Would you rather have Coke or Bubble Up?"

Another shrug. "They're both okay."

"Snickers or Mars Bar?"

Shrug.

"How about Peanut Butter Cups?"

She stood up a little straighter and her eyes widened as she yelped, almost offended, "No!"

Scott laughed. "Well," he said, "everyone needs a favorite junk food. We'll have to figure out yours. Mind watching my bike?"

She didn't mind. Ororo waited with Scott's bike while he popped into the gas station. When he came out again, he handed her a brightly wrapped popsicle, then unwrapped one for himself.

They walked for a bit, sucking on disturbingly orange popsicles. She supposed he didn't care, but the color made Ororo suspicious. That was _not_ natural. The outside was okay, but she didn't care for the way too sweet white bits.

"So why'd you come?" Scott asked.

By now the town was behind them, giving a sense of privacy. Neither of them assumed everyone was listening in, but there were things they did not want overheard on accident.

This wasn't about mutation, though.

"Just wanted to get out."

"Everything okay?"

"Fine. What do you do in the library all day?"

"Different things. Shelving books mostly."

"What's shelving books?"

"Every book that's been returned has to be put back on the shelves. I do a lot of that."

Ororo wrinkled her nose. That was what she had been jealous of? Scott spent time organizing the library? "Sounds boring."

"It's a challenge. I try to focus on putting the books away instead of being distracted by others I notice, but remember them so I can come back later. I'm really good with the Dewey decimal system now—that's the system by which books are organized."

Ororo rolled her eyes. She guessed she looked silly doing it. She felt the stickiness from her Popsicle and knew her face was orange. Nonetheless: "You're the world's biggest goody-two shoes."

"Thanks."

She sighed. "You're exacerbating!"

"What am I exacerbating?"

"Me!"

Scott looked puzzled for a moment. Then he laughed. "Exasperating!"

"What did I say?"

"Exacerbating. That means making something worse. Exasperating just means making someone want to punch you."

Ororo shifted her Popsicle stick to her left hand and used the right to punch Scott on the shoulder. She didn't punch hard, though.

"Wait, but then isn't exacerbating when you—"

"No, Ororo!"

She snickered. Scott knew exactly what she was suggesting and he went pink at the mention of it.

They had reached home by now, but still had a ways to go. The driveway was quite a walk. It was a lovely walk, she thought, both because it was shaded from the late afternoon sun and because of the view. The trees were so healthy and green!

They didn't speak for a while, just shared the experience. It was strange, Ororo thought, because she knew Scott was not having the same experience—he was off in his thoughts, probably thinking about his books back at the library. But he was a part of her experience and she was a part of his.

A truck rumbled past them, leaving the mansion. That would be the workmen, heading home for the day. Whatever was happening with the modifications, it was big news. (Just not news either Scott or Ororo was fully privy to.)

They passed Chris next. Ororo waved. "Hey, Mr. Summers."

She felt Scott twitch beside her.

Chris returned the wave. "Afternoon Ororo. Matthew."

"Good afternoon."

"Your mother was looking for you earlier," he continued, meaning Ororo.

"Can I help with the ship?" she asked.

Chris's expression answered the question before his words did. "Think you'd better see your mother first."

"Can Matty help?"

Softly, Scott told her, "I don't want to help with the ship—"

"You should," she replied. They spoke in low voices, their heads close together, but still it was crossing a line when she reasoned, "Nothing you do can change that he's—"

He jabbed an elbow into her ribs, aimed badly and hit something unexpected.

"Oh, I'm telling!"

Ororo bolted for the mansion. Scott only paused long enough to offer a polite goodbye before chasing after her. She reached the door first. The trouble was that unlike Hank or Charles, Ruth seemed to have no favorite part of the house. She seemed mildly indifferent even to her bedroom—but then it was no secret she rarely slept there.

So they found her missing from her classroom, missing from the sitting room (which she didn't like, anyway), and finally raced outside to find Ruth in the garden.

Although she had not grown up with siblings, Ororo knew how to tattle like a youngest child: "He groped me!"

"I did not, I hit you! Not hard," Scott added, realizing that 'I hit you' was not a very good defense. "I just sort of… missed. You can't grope with your elbow."

"You _missed_?" she retorted, incredulous. "They're not subtle!"

"Well, they're new."

Parts of this were true: Ororo had become rather curvier lately and she had been more comfortable with it, dressed more to accentuate it. Walked differently, carried herself differently.

That didn't stop her taking a swing at Scott. He let her.

Ruth raised her eyebrows. "Matthew, go inside."

He nodded and went.

Ruth gave Ororo a less than pleased look. "Do you want to tell me where you were?"

"I walked home with Scott," Ororo said. "We had Popsicles."

"You know you are not supposed to go out without telling someone."

The house rules remained pinned to the fridge, although they had been amended since they were initially written. Some rules were written after a particular incident (such as the one requiring a shirt and either pants or a skirt at the table, which Alex challenged by showing up in a skirt. Charles accepted this, since at least it wasn't boxers. That time, anyway.) while others simply reflected a change in focus.

The rule about telling an adult where you were going had more to do with the school. Scott tended to do this anyway, but he knew how to navigate the world. Ororo did not usually leave. With them, it was down to Ruth and Charles's discretion; not so with Doug and Laurie.

At what came next, Ororo's mouth fell open, she was so surprised. She had never heard those words before:

"You are grounded."

Well. She had heard them, but it was the first time they were meant for her.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

_She sneaks him in after her shift and for once he is not the center of her attention. With no one here to stop her, she climbs into the plane, into the cockpit. He stands on the wing, leans over her shoulder as he shows her how to fly, his breath against her cheek._

_She smells like candy. It's all he can do not to fall off the plane._

_They talk about flying. They talk about their lives. She tells him about history._

_He never did care for reading at school, nor the dreary verses at Sunday school, but she brings him books from the library in Dayton. She reads to him. He likes words much more when she reads them._

_Their stolen moments eclipse the sun, eclipse country and orders. Nearly all his life is military but the most important moments are hers. But the military doesn't care and when he learns he's to be transferred, the words devastate him._

_They seem to have so little time to part, Katherine and Chris, and suddenly a light shines on the little time they have spent together._

_She surprises him one dimming evening in the hangar._

_They have cried together. They have held tight to one another. They have kissed and cuddled and touched but never this. He looks at her, all of her, so perfectly placed beside a freshly-painted Boeing monoplane._

_He uses up all his self-control on a single question: "Are you certain?"_

_She is._

_"I've never loved anyone the way I love you, Chris. I never will… I never want to."_

* * *

 

The interior of Chris's ship tended to become uncomfortably hot and stuffy during the day, so Chris and Alex spent most afternoons working the ship's exterior. They worked in a good rhythm now, familiar with each other.

Alex had come home from the drug store today. When he worked at the garage he could continue on with whatever clothes he was wearing. The drug store he left a dress shirt over one of the spacecraft's wings, his dad's suggestion after he left the shirt lying on the grass. (His dad told him not to do that.)

"Something on your mind?" Chris asked. "Needle-nosed pliers."

Alex handed over the pliers. "Nah, nothing. Enjoying the work."

"Hm. Likewise. Good company."

Alex smiled to himself.

"The plane, I mean," Chris continued. A few seconds and he grinned.

Alex laughed and shoved him, acknowledging that it had been clever and funny but _not_ appreciated.

"'S how I got to be a pilot. When I was in the Army, I loved the planes, loved to fly. It was knowing how the plane worked that made flight make any sense." Chris stopped working and caught Alex's eye. "Educating yourself is everything, Alex."

The look on Alex's face was less than appreciative. "How'd you know?"

"You're still my kid. I know you're happier here, working with me, than you are at your other job."

He could claim it was the uniform. He was a lot more comfortable in an undershirt than the white collar required at the drug store. Could claim it was the waning sunshine.

"When I leave, you can come with me. Maybe you and your brother—but whatever you do, you keep learning. If you come with me, I'll teach you everything I know. If you stay here, you'll stay in school until you graduate from college. At least."

A part of Alex wanted to insist on doing otherwise. He never did take well to authority figures and even though this authority figure was his dad, Alex instinctively wanted to rebel. To say he'd stay in school _if he liked it_.

To say that he already had one big brother, thanks.

"I, um… I don't know about—Dad, I—"

"You don't have to make a decision yet. Just tell me you'll graduate."

"If I stay here, I'll graduate. I promise."

"Good. Do we have a wire stripper?"

"Um… yeah, here you go."

Chris took it and handed Alex the pliers. "You know, your mother and I, we didn't have that option. Schooling. It was the Depression. Then you and your brother came along, and…"

"Didn't you plan on us?" Alex wondered.

He always assumed children were deliberate. Perhaps, he reasoned, that was because so many people he knew were fostered or adopted, and those things didn't happen on accident. Sean's parents were Catholic, as were Alex's adoptive parents. As for Charles, well, it was strange to think that he had parents and didn't just suddenly appear, fully grown, like magic.

"Well, we knew you were a possibility."

There was something in Chris's tone, a suggestion Alex did not quite catch—then, suddenly, he did. "Ugh!"

Alex knew where babies came from, of course, but nonetheless, it wasn't a reminder he needed. Not about his own mother.

"In fact I'm surprise you don't have more sibl—"

"Chrissakes, Dad!"

He was almost relieved when Ororo called to them that it was time for dinner. Chris was still amused with his awful, awful joke.

Just awful.

Alex forgot about that the second he saw what was on the table.

"Ooh, pizza!"

He reached for a slice. Ruth slapped his hand. "You can wait thirty seconds!"

"But what if I can't?" Alex appealed. "Ruth. Please. I'm suffering."

Ruth rolled her eyes in response.

"Can't help myself. Ruth's pizza is better than regular pizza," he told Chris. "It's actually addictive on a physical level."

"Chemical."

"Thanks, Hank."

Alex did not have an unreasonable wait before everyone was sitting around the table, taking slices of pizza.

Asking about Alex's childhood had become something of a tradition since Chris's arrival. Although Alex was only three years old the last time Chris saw him, there were plenty of stories. Alex colored on the walls. Alex ran around the house shouting "Aleps Aleps Aleps!" Alex learned to take his diaper off…

"So," Ororo asked, "what was Alex's brother like?"

Alex's immediate reaction was relief. For once they could hear a story about someone else spitting mashed peas all over the table or shouting "Mommy me walk!" in the middle of the library.

Then he realized an uncomfortableness passed around the table. Charles and Ruth exchanged glances. Ororo was up to something, but she had not actually crossed a line. Alex's brother wasn't forbidden territory, just something they had all implicitly agreed not to discuss.

"Scott," Chris said. "He, uh… he was a very serious child. Quiet but affectionate."

He began hesitantly, but any difficulty evaporated by the end of the sentence. Ruth and Charles both visibly shifted in posture. They had been worried and that worry drained.

Chris could do this.

"The boys' mother, Katherine, was very smart and she loved to read. Alex always needed to be in motion but Scott would sit for hours while his mother read to him."

It was easy to imagine. Even now, studiousness was not Alex's strong suit. He worked very hard at it, but it wasn't his nature to be steady and quiet.

"That's how I imagine he might be today, that if he's out there. Sitting quietly, reading."

He was right at that. Alex was sure everyone else was thinking the same thing, that Scott was exactly what Chris imagined. But—with a burst of anger toward his brother—no one could say so.

For a moment, they were quiet.

"That's a very beautiful sentiment, Chris," Charles said. "Thank you for sharing, I can't imagine—"

"Why's she dead?" Scott asked. "Your wife. I mean, if you love her so much, why did you let her die?"

"Hey!" Alex objected.

"And where have you been? You play at being this loving dad—"

"That's enough," Charles warned.

"—but Katherine is dead and you left Alex for twenty years! You didn't care! For twenty! Fucking! Years!"

" _Matthew_!"

Alex had been in trouble a fair amount in his life. He got in trouble a lot at school and, as he grew older, at home. He picked fights with cops, usually when he was buzzed. But hearing Charles shout was enough to make him snap back in his seat.

"Take a walk."

The words were hard more than sharp, warning that argument would be fruitless. Alex glanced at Scott, watched him get up and walk away.

Chris's head had drooped. He excused himself and left, too.

Alex followed him outside. "Dad, wait." It was July, days so long nights passed in a blink. Nearly twilight and the bugs were working up to a frenzy. "Dad, it's not true."

A statement.

A plea: _please tell me it's not true._

"Not now," Chris replied. He continued toward his ship and Alex continued after him.

It was frustrating, but it was also the brush-off parents gave children. Even those moments were good ones in Alex's book.

"Look, it's not true, okay?"

Chris paused and turned to face Alex. "It is true, Alex. I couldn't save your mother. I left you alone. That is true and it's something I have to live with for the rest of my life."

"Well…" He couldn't argue the facts. Yes, his mother was dead. And yes, for twenty years, he thought his father was, too. The reasoning sounded pathetic even to Alex: "I still want you to be my dad."

Chris's expression shifted. "I am your dad. I just need a moment to myself, all right?"

Alex preferred not to push people on personal matters. He preferred not to let on that they could hurt him.

"Yeah. Of course."

* * *

 

"Am I grounded?"

Ruth had updated Charles on that afternoon, so he supposed he should not have been surprised to hear that when he arrived in Ororo's room.

"I'm afraid so. But chin up, it's only for a week."

Ororo did not put her chin up, metaphorically or physically. Instead she asked, "Is Scott grounded?"

Charles wasn't sure he followed the logic there. He wanted the children to have the same opportunities to one another. He wanted them both to learn and to play and to _have_. He wanted them to be comfortable—and those things were happening.

But treating them equally did not mean grounding them equally any more than it meant giving them the same marks in their classes.

"There will be consequences for his actions at dinner—"

"He was out all day!" she insisted.

Ah. This wasn't about Scott mouthing off.

"I was only out for a little while. Why am I being punished?"

"Consequences, Ororo. Actions have consequences. In this case it was not an action you took but the one you did not take. You aren't grounded because you left the grounds but because you did so without telling us. We know where Scott goes and that is why he is not grounded."

"He stopped at the gas station."

"That's enough." He said it tolerantly, but with a hint of impatience. He had allowed her to complain about being grounded. She was approaching unacceptable territory.

Ororo went quiet for a moment. "Why would someone have a scar like this?" she asked. She drew a line across her chest, then across her waist, then down her front.

She knew that was not an adequate explanation, which explained why Charles looked so uncertain. "It sounds," he said, after a moment, "like a vivisection. In some sciences, to experiment or better understand how our bodies work, much smaller animals may be used—mice, frogs. It's not something you would see on a person."

"What if I did?" she asked.

"Well, you—" Charles began. He stopped abruptly and his expression became much more serious. "Have you seen a person with an autopsy scar? A body?" he asked. "Sometimes if someone dies and we don't know why—"

"You're condescending," Ororo interrupted.

She tried to sound annoyed, but came off sounding hurt. She and Charles looked at one another. It was new ground for both of them, the acknowledgment that Ororo was not just smart. She needed to be smart.

Looking into her eyes, Charles realized that they were very much the same. He used his intellect to survive a crushing cold house. When there was no affection in his life—he was comfortable, but the maid knew him far better than his own mother did—he had the warmth of learning. It made him feel alive.

Ororo did not live in a home without affection. Ruth was demonstrative. Scott could be reserved sometimes, but he loved her, that was very clear. And Charles was not particularly keen to express emotions with any regularity, but what he lacked in expression he made up for in dedication. Ororo had a weird family who loved her.

This world was different from what she knew and although she had a safe and loving home, there was more to the United States than the mansion. The rest of it was foreign. Even here there were cultural misunderstandings from time to time. Ororo's intellect was her safety from that. She might not understand American culture (not that Charles blamed her, neither did he half the time), but she could do American schooling.

An outsider, not an idiot.

"Yes," he agreed, "I was condescending. I apologize. Now, shall we?" he asked, indicating the book.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Scott raised his hand to knock at the door, then stepped back. He bit his lip, took two steps away, then turned and went back again. Hesitated. He needed to, couldn't, had to…

He knocked. Lightly. Just a tap that maybe hadn't happened at all.

Ruth opened the door a few seconds later. "Come in." She had her hair down and covered with a scarf.

He had not been in Ruth's bedroom before. It was tidier than he would have expected with only a few personal touches. There was a braided rug, which seemed like it was probably brightly colored. On the dresser was a lacy cloth; a couple of candlesticks, both candles lit; a cup of dark liquid; and a weird-looking muffin. The bed was made more than neatly and there wasn't so much as a stray sock.

That was the biggest surprise. Scott looked around, peered into the corners.

"What are you looking for?"

"Did you grow up in an orphanage?"

"On a kibbutz with both of my parents. Why?"

Scott twisted to peer behind the bed without going further than he ought to. He took a step back toward the door.

"Scott?"

Alone in her bedroom, his real name seemed okay. Safe. Something about the room made his skin itch, though.

"What are you looking for?"

"Laundry."

Ruth smiled. "In the closet. Why an orphanage?"

Scott looked around again and did something he wished he had not done: he flinched. He remembered looking around a much smaller room, one with missing tiles in the ceiling, a room he cleaned with a too-small pair of socks. He remembered looking around that room and feeling a rush of panic because Mr. Milbury would find fault, because Mr. Milbury always did, because he needed to fix it and couldn't see what he should fix…

"Army. Come sit down." She motioned to the bed.

Scott perched on the edge of the bed.

Ruth sat beside him and put an arm around his shoulders.

"Mom…"

"Oh! Can you smell that?"

There it was, the reason for his discomfort, and she had figured it out first.

He nodded. The cup on the dresser smelled of wine.

Ruth took it into the bathroom, then came back to sit next to Scott. "Better?"

"I, um… yes. Thanks."

"Why does it upset you?" she asked.

Scott didn't know. Sometimes he thought alcohol smelled a little like the cleaning supplies in the lab, but that wasn't true. They were both bad smells, but different. Especially wine. He might not like the smell but he could tell it was subtle, layered, unlike the brash cleaners Hank used.

"I need something that's—I need—do you trust me?" Scott asked.

Ruth nodded. "Yes, with many things. You have earned this."

"I have something to do tomorrow. I was just gonna, um, sneak out, sort of? But after what happened with Ororo today and with what I said, I shouldn't, and I can't, um, don't know how to explain."

For a moment, she considered this. It wasn't a real explanation and Scott knew that. He looked to the candles flickering on the dresser.

"What are they?"

"For Shabbat. Jewish holy day, you know that."

He knew when Shabbat was and had always known that Ruth did _something_ , but Scott tended to keep a healthy distance between himself and religion. He had not asked for details.

"Here."

She retrieved the muffin thing from the dresser, tore off a piece, and bit into it. She offered the rest to Scott.

He hesitated. He knew Ruth was Jewish, but he didn't overall care for religion. More than that, a rumor came to mind—something he had heard at school and never put stock into. He never needed to wonder about it, before.

"What is it?"

"Bread."

"But what's in it?"

She shrugged. "Milk, eggs, flour, chocolate."

"But not…"

"Ah."

He grabbed a piece of the bread, embarrassed. "Hey, that's good."

"Of course it is good, it is chocolate. And the blood of Christian babies."

He choked for a moment before realizing it had been a joke. Ruth began to laugh, Scott a few seconds behind.

"So, you are going out tomorrow and we are not talking about where," she summarized.

"Yes. Please."

She nodded. "Does anyone know where you will be? Your brother, or…?"

"Hank knows."

"Hank. Okay, Hank I trust. When will you be home?"

"By two. Probably by one, but definitely by two."

"And you understand that if you are not home by two, Hank will tell me where you are, I will come retrieve you, and you will be grounded until Ororo forgets that _she_ was ever grounded."

Scott had to chuckle at that. He had yet to see Ororo forget anything.

"Exactly," Ruth agreed. She pulled him close and kissed his forehead. "So do not scare me."

"Yes, Mom."

"And remember, tomorrow is important to Alex."

He nodded. That would have been difficult for anyone to forget!

* * *

 

Alex wanted to bash his brother for what he'd done. Why couldn't Scott ever let something go? Their dad was here now, trying to be a good father. He _was_ a good father. Anyway no one was forcing Scott to spend time with him, so why was he being such a bitch?

Scott deserved a kick up the backside at least, but Alex left him alone. Instead, he grabbed a couple of beers and headed outside.

It was night now. Chris's ship glowed from the partially open door. Between the light from the ship and the light from the mansion, Alex had only a brief patch of darkness in which to stumble. (He managed to, anyway.)

"Dad?"

Chris was lying on his back, his head under what looked like the controls, bits of white wire hanging down. He took a moment to wriggle out, then sat up. He nodded a greeting. "Alex."

"I, uh… you want a beer?"

"Wouldn't say no."

Alex passed a bottle to Chris. The ship wasn't spacious, but it did have what Alex considered a pilot and copilot's chair. He wasn't sure which was which, just took a seat.

"So how do you see out of this thing?" Alex asked. In front of him was a piece of metal the same milky-copper as the rest of the ship's exterior.

"Basically through the windscreen, protector comes up when the power's down," Chris explained. "Maybe I could take you for a ride in her when she's fixed."

"Yeah."

Alex didn't want to talk about that. When the ship was fixed, Chris would leave.

There was something else bothering him, too. It was an idea, a question that had been put into his head and one he needed to ask, but was nervous to even mention.

"What was it like when Mom died?"

"Oh… well… your mother and I were transported off our plane seconds before it crashed. The Shi'ar, the aliens who had taken us, they didn't—they just looked and, uh, they decided I'd be useful for labor. Decided she wouldn't. It was quick."

Alex nodded. He supposed that was a mercy, at least. Even if it meant she was gone.

He took a long drag off his beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. It wasn't strong enough to qualify as Dutch courage. "Dad, about what happened at dinner—"

"We don't need to talk about it."

"No, listen, I need to explain. It's not just tonight, it's since you've arrived—"

"Alex. You don't have to."

"Yes, I do."

"I already know."

"Would you please just listen to me!"

It was an exasperation, not a request.

Chris sighed. He sipped his beer. "This is something I didn't think I would have. I never thought I would get to have a conversation with you, see you grow up—you spend so long wishing you had just said goodbye. I kept thinking over and over about that day. I don't know what the last thing I said to you was. Know what I said to your brother. _You listen to your mother. Take care of Alex. You're a man now._ There's no perfect goodbye, but that wasn't—wasn't even one, let alone a good one. So the fact that I'm sitting here with my son, having a drink, this is impossible. I'm not complaining, Alex. We don't need to complicate things."

And not talking about this would be so much easier, but Alex had Scott's stupid lie forced on him. He never liked it. Hearing Chris talk about Scott cut him right to the bone because Alex heard the love in his voice.

"It's about Matthew."

"I know about Matthew."

Of course, Ruth and Charles would have spun a careful story of mostly-truths. "No," Alex insisted, "he's—"

"Alex. I know about Matthew."

"You _know_?"

Chris nodded.

"You mean… how long?"

"A while."

"Chrissakes, Dad!" Alex yelped. "And you didn't think to tell me?"

He was, briefly, furious.

Then he laughed. "Twerp always makes things harder on himself. I wanted to tell you for a while now, but Scott's always taken care of me. I thought I was, I don't know, I thought I was being a good brother."

Chris nodded. "You were. He calls himself Scott?"

"Yeah. The Matthew stuff was for you."

Again he nodded, accepting it. "Can you tell me what happened to him?"

"Oh—you'd have to ask Charles. I think he was in an orphanage for a while." Alex knew something bad had happened in Scott's past. That much was obvious. He didn't ask for details and none had been offered. The kid screamed the whole house awake. That was the sort of pain you just respected.

"I meant his age. Scott was your big brother. He taught you so much. Looked after you. And now, he's still so young."

"You'd have to ask Hank," Alex said. "Scott doesn't age right, part of his mutation, I think." He hated lying to his father, but even Alex was unclear on that so he quickly went on: "Charles really loves him."

It hadn't been the right thing to say. In fact, Chris looked upset and Alex didn't know why. Hadn't he said he wanted Alex to be in a loving home? Wasn't that true with Scott, too? Or maybe it was because Alex had not explained about Scott's age, although he truly did not understand that one.

Alex cleared his throat and found himself nervously babbling about Charles.

"He's done a lot for both of us. He's the reason I can control my powers now, why I'm in college instead of sitting in an isolation cell."

"Yeah. I see that, Alex."

He realized what Chris must have heard, because it was exactly what Scott would have said: Charles had been a better father to both of them.

* * *

 

Sundown came so late in summer, Ruth used shorter candles. She let them burn down before going to Charles's bedroom. Her pajamas were there, anyway! (Not that they got much use.)

He was already there, reading something that looked terribly scientific.

"How is the reading?" Ruth asked. She did not mean the book in his lap.

Charles understood.

"Good, good. I think Ororo's really enjoying the Oz books."

"A book she likes! A miracle."

"Ah, I never said she liked them. She thinks they're very silly and enjoys telling me why, in detail."

Ruth laughed. "That is Ororo."

"What I don't understand is why she asked me if she was grounded—you already told her she was grounded."

"You do not understand this?"

"No, but now I think I should…"

"It is normal. I did this when I was young, if my father said no first, I asked my mother."

"And if your mother said no first?"

"Then the answer was no!"

"I can see why."

Charles hesitated. He sighed at the same moment Ruth heard the shriek. She looked into his eyes—he wanted her to stay. She couldn't fault him. She wanted to stay, too.

Instead she gave him a conciliatory kiss, realizing as she did that it was worse than no kiss at all. She lingered for a shared look, then slipped out of bed and pulled on a nightgown.

Scott was so quiet when he was awake, Ruth had begun to think that some deep-down part of him had lost patience. His nightmares would have woken neighbors down the block, were it not for the fact that the mansion _was_ the entire block. She hated it. How else could she feel? He was her son in every way that mattered and some deep-down part of him was in so much pain it waited until his conscious mind fled, then broke free and screamed.

"Scott."

She didn't knock.

It hadn't been long since Alex took the lock off Scott's bedroom door, but already Ruth was used to this. She turned on the light and let it flood the room. And, as was already usual, Scott was curled on the bed, covers kicked off.

"Shh, sweetheart."

The mattress shifted as Ruth settled on the side of the bed. Murmuring a lullaby, she stroked his arm. He knotted up when he had these dreams. Ruth sang to him and rubbed his back until he stopped shaking.

"Scott?"

"Y-yeah. I'm fine."

"You're not fine."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, baby…"

No one else called him that, and Ruth never said it in front of anyone else.

Scott picked himself up. His glasses had been knocked off so he squeezed his eyes shut and sat, hugging his knees.

"I don't like who I am anymore, Mom, I don't like what I do to the people around me. I need to go away for a while."

Ruth froze. She was not a woman undone by much, but everyone had a limit. Everyone had weaknesses.

"What did you say?"

"I need to get away from here. You and the Professor, I know that this is, that I… I talked to Doug about staying there for a while. The distance will help. I won't be like this."

"Scott, you are my son and I will love you forever, but you put your glasses on and look me in the eye when you say these things."

He shook his head: she didn't understand. "I gotta go. I know what I'm doing to you."

"And this is your solution? To run away? I will be so much happier to know that my son is struggling without me to help him. Yes, it will help, I think, that I must hope he is safe instead of knowing. How can you think this? This is where you were going tomorrow, to see Doug?"

"No—"

"You lied to me—"

"No, I swear! That's… that's something different, but… it would be better for everyone if I left."

"No, it would be better if Chris had never come. _You_ are an important part of this family; _he_ is a stranger with a bad past. Listen to me. This is not better. And if you run away…" Ruth shook her head. The look on her face was severe, but undercut by the sniffle that followed.

"I'm—"

Her expression warned him not to continue. He had damned well better not apologize.

What he said next came between mumbles and shrugs. Scott had never been very good at expressing his emotions. "I love you too."

She kissed his forehead. "You must stop saying things like this. And tell Doug to come visit us instead, he will always be welcome here."


	17. Chapter Seventeen

_His time in Alaska is beautiful…_

_He can't help thinking about it in terms of Katherine. The opposite of Katherine. That she is small and soft and warm, while the wilderness is jagged and harsh and his breath puffs white clouds in the morning._

_Both steal his breath. Katherine and Alaska are the most astounding visions, concepts Chris knows. Both are larger than life, though only one literally._

_He enjoys the time, enjoys his work with the planes, but he misses her._

_Other men make for enjoyable company. He likes the laughter. The booze isn't bad either, and plenty free-flowing—wild Alaska is a bit unlike Dayton!_

_But he misses her._

_Six months and he steps off the plane back in Ohio. His family is here and he is genuinely happy to see his brother and sisters, his mom and dad. That's nothing compared to how he feels at the thought of seeing Katherine again._

_He waits for her outside the hangar._

_The first day he misses her._

_The second day he arrives earlier._

_By the third day, even his military training can't stretch his patience. He calls over one of the girls, the plumpish one with the dark curls._

_"Have you seen Kate?"_

_"Kate?" the girl repeats. She looks around, looks uncomfortable. "Excuse me, I need to…"_

_Chris tries to stop her, but she ignores him._

_He takes the bus back to Akron. He stays with his parents. Akron isn't easy. Nowhere is easy. The base is one thing; the level of discipline can be a challenge, but the level of poverty simply does not exist. Everyone has clothes even if they are rough, food even if it tastes like someone else ate it first and you rather not guess which end it came out of to land on your tray._

_The real world makes him miss Alaska._

* * *

 

"Oh shit, are we really out of tomatoes?"

"Alex, language," Charles said mildly.

The kitchen was its usually sensible location. It was the 4th of July, but holiday or no, everyone needed breakfast. Charles sat at the table with tea and toast he would not be allowed to enjoy with any semblance of peaceful reflection. Some days he would prefer familial closeness over quiet.

Which was lucky, because Ororo had discovered strange, thin products in the fridge that seemed vaguely laminated and unnervingly orange. She held a square up and was wriggling it like a flag in a tornado. What a strange sort of nonsense this was! But what had it been doing in the fridge?

"But how are we out of tomatoes?" Alex insisted. He stood with one hand on the fridge door, the other raking through his hair, as it did when he was nervous.

Hank was enjoying it immensely.

Alex caught his smirk. "You're behind this," he accused.

"No."

"What other nerd snacks on tomatoes?"

"It wasn't me."

"What the hell, Hank!"

"For pity's sake," Charles interrupted, "they're tomatoes, Alex. There's no shortage."

"I could go get more," Ororo offered without taking her eyes off the wriggling orange square.

"You will not," Charles replied, reminding her that he actually did know that she was grounded—and that she really was grounded. "Matthew can—oh. Alex…" Charles took out his wallet and offered a note to Alex. "Buy more tomatoes."

Alex took the cash—"Thanks"—and gave Hank an evil look.

"It wasn't Hank," Charles added. When Alex gave him a questioning look, Charles explained, "Ruth. It was beautiful."

"Sweet," Alex said, chuckling.

"Gross," Ororo commented.

"Alex, you wouldn't happen to know where Matthew is, would you?" Charles asked.

Alex shook his head. "Haven't seen him since last night."

Charles began to comment on that, then read something that made him stop. He didn't need to read it telepathically. Hank's body language was not subtle.

"Ah," Charles said. "Go on, then. Get your tomatoes."

Alex nodded. "And _you_ , don't eat all my cheese!" he said, tapping Ororo on the head.

"This is cheese?" She took a small bite. "Eew! Get real cheese. Get the stuff with the holes."

"Jarlsberg," Charles supplied.

"You want _jarlsburgers_?" Alex asked. "Dude, it's Independence Day."

"There's something wrong with this," Ororo said. She spat the not-cheese into the trash. "Gross. Get the cheese-holes!" she called at Alex's back as he headed out of the room.

"You're a cheese-hole," Alex retorted.

"Jerk!"

"Gnat!" Then the sound of a door shutting as Alex had the most last of words.

Charles, more solemnly, turned to Hank.

"Where's Scott?"

He shrugged in a poor mockery of innocence. "Probably went for a run."

"He doesn't leave the property when he runs, on the property I could sense him!"

Charles heard the snap in his voice and he truly regretted it. Generally, he trusted Scott. Lately, with what the boy was going through, Charles had no choice but to give him a shorter leash. He was still so young and his judgment was not that of an adult. So the fact the Hank knew where Scott was and refused to say was frustrating.

Nevertheless, an apology was due. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to speak to you that way, Hank."

Hank shrugged again. "It's okay."

"No, it isn't. You both do that, you dismiss apologies."

"I guess you're the cheese-hole," Ororo offered. When Charles gave her a look, she affected innocence—as poorly as Hank, but not seriously. "I don't dismiss apologies. I thought that was what you wanted!"

Charles sighed, wanting to respond to that but knowing he hadn't the grounds. It was strange how he wavered between opinions on Ororo's intelligence. Either he was wishing she would apply it more when she was studying, or he was wishing she would apply it less when she was being a smart-aleck. He would settle for an average of that two.

She changed the subject to, "How's the, um, all the building… stuff… going?"

"The renovations are coming along nicely," Hank said, delivering the word 'renovations' like it was dipping in chocolate. For Ororo, it might as well have been. She liked good words.

"What are you doing down there, anyway?"

"We're using Chris's hard light technology to update the shelter into a better, safer training room and building a room for Cerebro."

"Cerebro already has a room," Ororo pointed out.

"Cerebro needs a better power source and the cabling is beyond unwieldy."

"Why is it called that?"

"Unwieldy?"

"Cerebro."

Charles and Hank answered together, "It's Spanish for 'brain'."

"Oh." Ororo considered that for a moment. "I thought Spanish sounded just like English," she said. "Like 'delicioso' and 'distancia' and 'tree-o'."

Hank looked puzzled. "The Spanish word for tree is árbol."

"But it was a reasonable thing to guess," Ororo argued. She had a point. There were quite a lot of English and Spanish cognates, but they were still separate languages.

"What are we guessing?" Ruth asked, stepping into the kitchen. She was slick with sweat, her hair in a tight braid. Like Scott, Ruth tended to run on the Xavier estate. Unlike Scott, she did so because otherwise she worried her superhuman speeds would attract unwanted attention. The brick wall protected against that, although it had not been the best protection the time she ran into it. Besides a few wiggly bricks, there was no harm done.

Charles answered her, "Ororo is guessing how to say things in Spanish. I am guessing where my son has gone."

"Hank knows," Ruth offered. She took a packet of cheese slices out of the fridge, gave it a distasteful look, and continued rummaging.

"What do you mean, Hank knows? How do you know?"

"I do not know, Hank does. Because Hank knows everything. Also, because Scott told me Hank knows where he will be."

"Did either of you plan on telling me?" Charles asked.

"No," Hank replied honestly.

"I intended to," Ruth said. "I was… distracted."

The looks they gave each other suggested precisely what she had found so distracting.

"Gross!" Ororo groaned.

"I thought you weren't Puritanical about sex," Hank said.

"I am when my parents are doing it!" she objected. Alex wasn't there, but Ororo knew what he would have said: _At least they're not actually doin' it right now._ That was deeply unfair. How could Alex make his comments when he wasn't even in the room!

Later that morning she wandered into the garage. Usually Alex and Scott used the garage most and she was not particularly interested in cars, but Ororo liked looking through the bits and pieces that existed in the gap between what the Xaviers would throw away and what they would keep in the house. There were random things, like an old, ornate birdcage and wheels to a vehicle so old it barely qualified as a car.

There was her, too. The girl in the gap. The girl who lived in this country but didn't feel right celebrating it. She was an American citizen and her dad had been American. Her pre-Charles dad had been American.

She didn't think that really made her American.

She didn't consider herself Egyptian because her pre-Ruth mom was Egyptian but because she knew the country. She had lived there, as herself, as a part of Cairo.

She didn't know America. She was crashing its birthday party as Alex's unwelcome plus-one.

Ororo found a bunch of old paint cans and shook them. Something sloshed around inside the lot. She picked one and tried to pry off the lid with her fingers, but she couldn’t hold it with her cast and it slipped. She tried pinning it with her knees. When her fingers still couldn’t get it open, she found a tool chest and took out the screwdriver. She used it to pop the lids, stir up the goop inside, and paint streaks of it like red, white, and blue racing stripes on her legs.

On second thought, she considered, maybe she should have done black and white. After all… she was. Right?

Ororo shook her head. Was this supposed to make her feel better? She looked at her striped legs and wondered why she thought this was a good idea. Plus—noting the design on her shorts—she was pretty sure you were not supposed to wear stripes with plaids.

A sudden noise startled her. The garage door was opening. Ororo looked at her legs and considered hiding. It beat trying to explain to someone why she was painted. Instead she plunked herself down on the stairs leading into the house.

Alex pulled his junker into the garage and parked.

"Hey, Gnat!" he called. "I got your Jarlsberg, you commie. Oh decided to show your stripes, I see. Stylish."

She nodded.

"You okay?" he asked when he got close.

She nodded again. "Yeah…" She showed him her hands. One was smeared with red, white, and blue paint. The other had spots on the half-hand peeking out of the cast.

Alex nodded back. He grabbed a squarish metal bottle and poured some onto a rag.

"Hey, Ororo, does this rag smell like chloroform to you?"

He clearly thought this was funny, but she frowned in confusion.

"What's chaloroform?" she tried to repeat the word.

"It's a—never mind. Just give me your hand."

"Why?"

"Just gimme."

Ororo did. Alex wiped the foul-smelling rag over her hands, using Turpentine to clear off the red, white, and blue. He left her stripes, though.

"C'mon. Let's chill the 'berg and wait for the twerp. Maybe he'll be late."

"Late means grounded," Ororo reminded him.

Alex grinned like a lion. "Other people watch football."

He started into the mansion and Ororo tagged after him. The football comment reminded her: "Hey, Alex? Are you sure I should be there, at the July thing?"

"Fourth of July," he corrected.

"Fourth of July thing."

"'Course you should. I said so."

"Yeah," she admitted, "but… I'm not really American."

"You're not Christian, you still did Christmas."

"I did, but…"

She supposed it was difficult to explain to someone like Alex. She liked him and all, but he was a blond-haired, fair-skinned man and—not that she would tell him to his face—he was handsome. There were challenges in this world that he would never understand.

"How about be there 'cause we want you there?" Alex suggested. "I mean, Ruth and Charles aren't exactly American, either. They still feel like family."


	18. Chapter Eighteen

"Matthew swore!"

"I didn't!"

"He did!"

Alex looked up from the table. On Charles's advice, he was reviewing his notes from the previous semester to keep the information fresh in his mind. It felt boring, but Charles could be annoying.

Charles could be persuasive.

"Matty's swearing now?" Alex asked. Ororo and Scott had raced into the kitchen with their argument already in swing, but he got the basics.

Scott had not been late that day. He wasn't grounded and the only consequence he faced was a concerned look from Charles. So Alex could understand why Ororo wanted to get him in trouble now.

That, and it was how siblings worked.

"I swear sometimes," Scott retorted. Then, looking to Ruth, he added, "But not this time."

"Did so too," Ororo insisted.

" _Shucking_ ," he stressed. "I said I was _shucking_ corn. Like Ruth told me to." He looked like that was what he had been doing. Thin, fair strands of cornsilk stuck to his shirt and fingers.

"I have not heard this word before," Ruth admitted, uncertain. She told Scott to peel the corn. He didn't correct her.

"It's called shucking," Alex chimed in. "Who are you gonna trust?"

He and Scott said it at the same time: "I'm from Nebraska."

"Plus," Scott continued, "it makes no sense for me to say… that other thing."

"Yeah, it's corn, not a pomegranate," Alex added.

Scott gave him an exasperated look.

"Kiwi?"

"Alex!"

"Are you finished, by the way?" Ruth asked. "With the whatever-we-are-calling-it that I asked you to do."

Scott nodded and went to retrieve a bowl of de-husked corn.

"Nicely done."

"It's corn," Ororo huffed.

"Corn is delicious," Alex said.

"It's _corn_."

"It is historically appropriate," Ruth offered. "This is a New World crop, it is from Central America originally. This is a holiday for celebrating the Americas, it is not?"

Scott and Alex traded glances. Neither of them had heard of the 4th of July in those terms.

"They did not invent a new country physically," Ruth reasoned. "Without this land to conquer the Pilgrims would have died at sea, there would have been no United States anyway."

"That… actually makes a lot of sense," Alex agreed.

"Well… yeah… but…" Scott wasn't completely comfortable with it. He had grown up hearing at school how great America was and while he had his doubts about some aspects of it—like every cop, teacher, and social worker in Omaha, and a few specific individuals—he believed in freedom and liberty. Ruth wasn't exactly disagreeing with that, but the way she talked about it did make him a little uncomfortable.

"So… not in trouble for swearing?" Ororo asked.

"Not this time," Ruth replied. "Sorry. But keep an ear open." Then she laughed. "Ear. Because it is corn."

"That's unbelievably lame," Alex said. "I would expect that from Specs over there, but you, Ruth?"

"Specs?" Scott asked.

Alex shrugged. "You wanna make X-Man one day, right? You'll need a codename. We can spell it with an x. S-p-e-x. No? I'll keep thinking, I'm great with these."

Ruth raised an eyebrow. She was the field leader of the X-Men and had not stepped down after Sean's death, and although she had not been there long she had heard a lot of stories. "Did Hank not strangle someone after you called him Beast?"

"Not to death…"

"I love you, Ruth," Scott said. Most people couldn't one-up his brother—and he didn't want most people to one-up his brother, Alex was _his_ to humiliate (or, usually, vice versa)—but Ruth was his mom, and Alex's teammate, so it was okay.

Ruth ruffled his hair. "Of course you do. And speaking of Hank?"

"Right!"

"And Alex, you are cooking, go cook."

Alex nodded. Both he and Scott left. Scott had gone to give Hank a fifteen-minute warning for dinner (though that was never a guarantee he would show up) and Alex, who insisted on 4th of July, was manning the grill. It was manly, he insisted.

Ororo rolled her eyes at Alex. She had followed him outside and was now watching him poke at corn and burgers. The burgers had been Alex's idea. If he had his way, he would never eat anything else.

"It's still cooking," she told him, pushing the hair out of her face.

"Grilling!" Alex corrected. "It's manly."

"You're like this close to wearing an apron."

"Nope. Manly."

"Neanderthals cooked this way."

"Exactly! Alex manly Neanderthal!"

He had been prepared to continue, but the line reduced Ororo to helpless laughter. (Which was too bad, in Alex's opinion; he was ready to beat his chest like a gorilla if necessary.)

They had not heard Charles approach. His voice was amused, well-meaning, and thoroughly professorial as he said, "The Neanderthal is extinct, Alex. They were wiped out by Homo sapiens."

Alex snickered.

"By _people!_ "

"Aren't we people, Professor?" Ororo asked.

"Of course we are."

"But not Homo sapiens."

There was an awkward moment in which Ororo tried to sort through this. She held her hair back this time. It was long enough that she used to wear a ponytail, but with her broken arm, 'brushed' was the best she could do.

Then Charles said, "Well, we're quite new, we weren't around to wipe out the Neanderthal."

"Would've done it faster than Homo sapiens," Alex chimed in.

Charles gave him a disapproving look.

Alex looked sufficiently chastised, but he argued anyway: "You know I didn't mean it like that."

"Ororo." Ruth motioned her over. While Alex and Charles held a conversation that was more body language than substance, Ruth brushed Ororo's hair and wove it into two braids. Ororo shook her head to test them. The ties battered her ears, but held strong.

It had been her idea to have the Fourth of July as a picnic. She didn't know the word, but when the others were discussing the trouble of a Fourth of July in a formal dining room, Ororo described it—when you put a blanket on the grass…

She liked the word, though. Picnic. There was something playful about it.

When they had the idea, slowly everyone had the same realization. You could tell by who looked awkward. Of course it was Ruth who asked if Charles would feel out of place. When he assured them he would not, Alex suggested it was because Charles would feel like a lord among peasants and thus totally at home.

Scott and Hank arrived not long after that. Scott carried a canvas bag, but Charles was a bit more concerned by what Hank carried: "Hank, is that a fire extinguisher?"

"Yes."

"Hank, why is that the fire extinguisher?"

Hank didn't have a chance to explain.

Ororo had used this opportunity to sneak up behind Scott and was about to pummel him with her cast. She was an exceptional sneak, but Scott knew her too well and had expected this. He spun around and moved to toss her. At the last second, he paused. He disliked sparring with Ororo at the best of times. Now she had a cast!

She whacked his ribs with it.

"Ow! Ow!" A litany of obscenities followed.

"Would some ice help?" Scott asked.

Ororo swore at him in Arabic. He had no idea what he said, but was fairly certain he could pluck an Arabic obscenity out of any conversation now.

"Would some ice cream help?"

"No, it will not, and you are eating dinner in ten minutes anyway. Ice cream later," Ruth decreed.

Ororo gave her most imploring look.

Ruth rolled her eyes. "Do you know, I think I can understand this holiday because I am Israeli. We threw off British rule, too—of course the British were mainly serving as peacekeeping forces and not exploiting the country for the three G's. Which are?"

"Gold, God, and Glory," Scott supplied. It was something they had talked about in history class, what motived New World exploration.

Ororo stuck out her tongue at him.

He gave her a gently superior look—and flipped her the bird behind his back.

Charles, meanwhile, agreed with Ruth, "I'm afraid the British have historically been a bit tyrannical."

"Mm. You _are_ a tyrant," she murmured.

Ororo and Scott glanced at each other. She rolled her eyes and his expression suggested he did the same. Yes, it was a holiday, but there was no excuse for parents to flirt! Honestly!

Alex laughed. Scott and Ororo were closer to him so he was able to say, too softly for Ruth and Charles to hear, "Yeah, just imagine what they get up to when you're _not_ looking."

Scott went pink. Ororo had a slightly different reaction and launched herself at Alex.

"What's going on?" Charles asked.

Ororo had knocked Alex to the ground, but she had the element of surprise. He struggled to get the upper hand—but they were about evenly matched.

"Little help?" Alex called. He was confident in his strength and trying not to hurt Ororo. She was just glad someone was sparring with her and had wholly thrown herself into it.

Scott, as the eldest sibling, saw that he had to get involved. He couldn't just let Alex and Ororo knock on each other. Besides, oldest meant strongest, and that had to be proved.

He pulled Alex off Ororo, knocked him to the ground, and knelt on his throat.

He grinned at Ororo.

She grinned back and sat on Alex's chest.

"Hey," Alex commented, "usually I'd have to pay for that sort of thing."

"Ugh! Pervert," Scott said.

"And there's Charles always saying I don't work at anything, it's not easy, you've got a very bony ass, Ororo."

"Yeah," Ororo said, decisive, "pervert."

She stood. Freed up, Alex did the same.

"That was a touch too far, I think," Charles commented.

"She sat on me!" Alex objected.

Ruth defused the situation: "Alex, food's burning."

He swore and returned to the grill.

"And I do not have a bony ass," Ororo added.

Alex, wisely, chose not to respond. He returned his attention to the grill and pretended there was no chaos around him.

The Xaviers did not, in general, engage in casual behaviors, so they did not have a picnic blanket. Old sheets had been suggested, at which point Charles pointed out that _old_ sheets were not kept. Scott didn't like the idea of using anything good for a tablecloth; Ororo very much did. So they compromised: they laid out a tarp and a duvet cover on top of it.

"This is a posh picnic," Ororo proclaimed. She said 'posh' like it was a dirty word—a really dirty word, not like normal swearing, which she used like candy.

"No one's forcing you to eat," Alex retorted. With a grudge to address from before, he added, "You can just walk away from that burger that who cooked for you? Oh, right—"

She chucked a pickle at him.

"I like it," Scott said. "Besides, what picnic experience do you have?"

"What picnic experience do _you_ have?" she retorted.

He shrugged. "Not a lot, but you're over-thinking it."

"So… do what?"

He tossed her a bag of chips. "Eat, drink, and be merry?"

Ororo went to pick up a burger to throw at him but Ruth interrupted the action with a string of rapid Arabic. The words were obscured to the rest of them, but the meeting was clear.

"Aaw, Ema!"

"Ororo!" Charles said, surprised and disapproving.

She looked genuinely confused and a bit hurt. Ororo and Charles looked at each other, not quite arguing, not quite sure where to go next.

Then Ruth began to laugh. "It is perfect," she announced, "he does not know what this means except 'kus ema'!" The phrase she snapped at drivers who cut her off and telemarketers who did not apologize and hang up immediately. "He thinks it is swearing."

It was enough for Ororo to start laughing.

Charles wasn't the only one confused. "Then what does it mean?"

"Ema means _mom_ ," Ruth explained.

Hell of a thing to scold someone for! Even Charles laughed at the misunderstanding.

"This 'eat, drink, and be merry' business," Ororo said. "When you say drink—"

"No," Ruth interrupted. She knew where this was going. "Alcohol is for adults."

"And Alex," Ororo pointed out.

Alex gestured to himself with a wounded, shocked, and utterly exaggerated look. He couldn't deny that he and Chris had been keeping to themselves as they went through beers, though.

"Adults and Alex," Ruth allowed.

He gasped. "A knife through my heart," he said. "Ruth, I'm not feelin' the love."

"I'm sorry. You're very grown up." She patted his hand.

"Jesus Christ!"

"Too hard?"

Usually Ruth was conscientious about her enhanced strength. Perhaps it was the relaxation of the day or that she and Alex, both with military histories, could be a little rough with each other, or a simple mistake.

"I'm not saying you bruised me," Alex said, "I'm just saying I'm surprised Charles trusts those hands with his—"

"Alexander Cole Summers!" Charles tried to be tolerant of antics, but there were limits. "Honestly, is the only way to end this nonsense to add to the house rules that mealtime is not the place to discuss genitalia?"

"I'm stopping," Alex said. He knew when he was close to crossing a line. "It was that Summers charm getting the better of me."

"Although I wouldn't mind if we introduced that rule," Hank offered.

"What _we_ , furball?" Alex retorted through a mouthful of burger. Hank didn't make the house rules. Answering to Charles was one thing, that was fine, but Hank wasn't even older than Alex!

"The grown-ups," Hank said.

"What's genitalia?"

There was a moment of silence in which no one knew how to respond to Ororo's question, though the looks on their faces made Alex snicker. Of course it was reasonable. Who put that term on an English as a Second Language vocabulary list?

The reactions answered her question. "Oh!"

Alex cracked up.

The conversation shifted to recent history, rather a risk with a man out of time and a history teacher. Ruth supplied a summary of the previous decade's war with Korea as well as an update of the ongoing situation in Vietnam. None of it was particularly appropriate for the Fourth of July.

After a while, Scott began collecting plates and bringing them into the kitchen. Chris moved to help him, but Scott shook his head. "It's a probably your first Fourth of July in ages. You should relax."

"As should you," Chris pointed out.

"I relax better when I do stuff."

"That makes no sense," Ororo pointed out.

Alex reached for another beer.

Scott nudged his brother. "Don't you think you've had enough?"

"It's just beer, dude."

"But not just _a_ beer."

"Scott, it's getting dark," Hank observed.

"I guess," Scott agreed. It was more early twilight than late.

"Dark enough."

Scott looked confused for a moment. Then he grinned. He ran inside with the plates, in such a hurry he fell on his way back and skinned a knee. He didn't care.

When he returned, Hank took four thin metal rods from a canvas bag. The first he handed to Scott, then fumbled with a lighter. Rather than catching fire, the rod began throwing sparks. Scott grinned at the firework in his hand.

"I want one!" Ororo cried.

Hank gave her a sparkler, too.

The sparklers turned into a party in themselves. Ororo and Scott raced with them, swished them through the air to draw designs, but they were no match for Ruth.

Hank had been clever enough to make many sparklers, enough to keep everyone in high spirits as darkness settled in.

Later, as the last of the holiday was cleared away and the others headed (or, in Alex's case, staggered) to bed, Scott sat on the stairs outside. He held the last of the sparklers in his hand, unlit.

"Aren't you coming in?" Charles asked.

Scott shook his head. "I, um… I'm going to wait until it gets really dark out," he explained. "Then I'll light it."

Charles considered that. He didn't believe Scott entirely, that much was clear from his expression. After a moment he said, "Don't stay out here all night."

"I won't."


	19. Chapter Nineteen

The trouble with a power like Charles's was that it could never fully be stopped. He could as easily turn off his telepathy as he could turn off the faucet to stop the rain. So he always felt pieces of those around him. He often felt frustration from Ororo, a constant racing hum of brilliance from Hank, an unnerving mix of darkness and low-level arousal from Alex…

What woke him was a mix of terror and self-loathing so strong he wasn't certain if he wanted to howl or weep. He had felt something like this before, but never so strong. For a moment he laid on his back, just breathing.

Charles had been depressed and he had been ashamed. How could he not? He had spent weeks drunk, it wasn't something one was proud of. This was different. He had never felt this level of disgust with himself. It washed over him in waves.

He knew Scott struggled, but Charles tried to be respectful of others' minds. He didn't go rifling through their thoughts constantly. During the day, Scott was usually busy, distracted. Charles knew there was a pained undercurrent.

It did not seem terribly different from the memories of embarrassment Hank would always carry. Hank had been teased in the few years he bothered with school.

Charles sat up. It was something he had learned to do all over again when he lost the use of his legs. Part of physical therapy, the part he stayed for, was simply learning how to sit up. He never before considered how much he used the muscles below his waist for it. Now he laid his arms on the bed and pushed himself upright.

"Charles?" Ruth asked, half-awake.

"Another nightmare," he murmured.

"I'll go—"

"No, you stay. Get some sleep. I'll take care of it."

Charles rather felt he had to. He loved Scott like his own, but currently felt a kinship with him from the pain they were both experiencing.

Charles was halfway out the door when the wailing started. He had never heard a sound like that before, even during the nightmares. Hurrying was not easy for him. He sped up as much as he could.

When he reached Scott's bedroom, he pushed the door open.

"Oh, Scott."

The state of the room…

Charles truly wished Scott could be a normal teenager whose room was an unholy mess. That would explain the sheet and pillow on the floor. Not only did Scott keep everything in its place, he dusted and swept—things Charles had not known how to do at Scott's age. (Things he could not do now, for that matter, which was wholly unrelated to his paraplegia.) The room was neat as a damn pin and Scott had been sleeping on the floor.

The boy himself sat with his back against the bed, curled up, rubbing his arms. He couldn't stop crying. He could barely breathe through it.

"Scott?"

He didn't respond. He choked on sobs as he tried to press words around them. Then, almost incomprehensibly, "Matthew."

Of course. Even in this horrid moment he remembered the lie.

"Please just go." Now that Scott had begun speaking, it seemed he remembered himself capable of more. "Leave me alone."

Not a chance.

"You know I am not going to do that."

"I don't want… please…" Scott trailed off, dissolving into sobs again.

"No."

When he was first adjusting to his new life, Charles had certain preconceptions about being a cripple. He was broken. He could no longer help anyone—something the students had disproved. No one would love him, let alone desire him—something Ruth had disproved. His friends would abandon him—something Hank had disproved a hundred times over, and Alex and Sean would have if he hadn't telepathically pushed them away. Charles would never forget that. Hank had stayed by him, helped him… admittedly, because he was blue and had nowhere else to go, but there had always been concern, caring.

In some ways, however, he was limited. "I can't go to you." And he would, if he could. He would sit on the floor and hold his son… but he couldn't. It was the first time in a very long time that he felt crippled on a personal level. As someone who could no longer go on missions with the team, he had dealt with that for a while. As a man, it was new and all too old.

"I can't go to you, I need you to come to me.

"It's not far.

"Matthew."

He didn't respond to any of it.

Charles had known tonight was different. He didn't need to hear Scott's nightmares; he felt them. Strong emotions were like psychic screams. He couldn't _not_ feel them. He felt an awareness of Scott's fear and tonight, something else.

He could see it now, quite clearly. Something had broken. He didn't know why and he wasn't happy about that, but he didn't know that he had seen Scott this low before. He had been afraid when he first arrived, frustrated with the newer students… this was different.

"Scott."

He whimpered, maybe in response to his name.

"Come here. Please."

It wasn't like parallel parking.

Talking Scott over to him took several minutes. As he did, Charles found himself thinking about the paraplegia, the man it made him. He had cared for the first team, but this was different. It wasn't Scott's youth. It was something of himself he saw in the pathetic boy he met in the police station.

Charles stroked Scott's hair while he cried, rested his free hand on Scott's shoulder.

This was a sort of cry that would have embarrassed him, but was heartbreaking from Scott. He wasn't crying, the crying was happening to him, was the excess too-much escaping his body. He shook and coughed. It was a compulsion. A need.

Maybe Charles should have sent Ruth. She could have held him properly.

For a while, he didn't try to prompt Scott into speaking. Not while he was crying like that, sobbing and gasping and choking himself on tears. Even when he had stopped crying, Charles waited patiently. While Scott was trying to piece himself together, Charles noticed two minds nearby. Ruth's he would have known anywhere, and… Alex, perhaps? He hoped so. No one could reach Scott quite like his brother.

Nobody volunteered themselves after Scott began to breathe evenly again, so it was left to Charles to ask, "All right now?"

Scott nodded, then shook his head. "No." His voice sounded rough and scratchy. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry."

He sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Charles winced, but pretended not to notice.

_Are you going to get rid of me._

He hated that thought—was sick of hearing it. "No, never. You're my son and nothing will ever change that."

Scott shivered. "I'm sorry. I know, don't be. I keep thinking about how you can't trust me. How I'll never be an X-Man like Alex, never go on missions or…"

Charles once more reached out to the minds nearby. Ruth hated this—he wasn't surprised. He wasn't sure how anyone survived feeling emotions the way she did.

"I do trust you and you will be an X-Man one day if that's what you want. If you'll recall, I don't allow you on missions _now_ because you're a child."

For once, Scott didn't argue. He felt like a child. Not as much of a child as he wished he were—when he was four and slept in his mother's bed when he had bad dreams—but not an adult, either.

"I want it to stop," he said, softly. "I'm—scared and—ashamed," it was like pulling teeth to get those words out. "I don't know what to do."

 _I wish I could tell you,_ Charles thought. Scott looked to him for guidance and he would provide it, truly he would—if he could. This was beyond him.

"I don't know what I am."

That Charles could help with.

"You're my son. A brother, a friend. You are important to the people around you who trust you and rely on you."

Although he was not in a place where he knew how to say as much, Scott was moved. Charles knew that—and he knew it did not solve the biggest problem.

"What am I going to do?" Scott asked.

"We'll think of something. I'll talk to Ruth."

Suddenly he realized that it wasn't Alex in the hallway.

Scott flinched. His nightmares were no secret, nor that they were getting worse. But he didn't like having them mentioned. His thoughts were poorly concealed. They were too overwhelming to be hidden: the fear that people would stop loving him.

"For now, try to sleep."

Scott nodded and went to lie down.

Charles resisted the urge to sigh. "In bed."

"Right."

"I can ask Ruth to stay with you until you fall asleep."

Scott shook his head.

"I could stay."

Scott paused. "I'm okay."

No, he really wasn't.

"Would you talk to me?" Scott asked, settling under the covers.

"What would you like me to talk about?"

"I don't know. Anything."

"All right, then."

With Ororo, it was somewhat different. They always had their book to read and (almost) always had Ororo's opinion about it. They really were such different children.

Now Charles faltered. What was he going to say? What could he say? He supposed he could talk about evolution and the history of humanity's ancestors. He recalled Raven's claiming it always put her right to sleep. (Rather unfairly, in Charles's opinion, since this was fascinating stuff! Beside the point now.)

"Have I ever told you about the Soviet checkpoint, and how I fooled two guards into letting us pass? A whole truckload of American agents?"

"Did you use your telepathy?" Scott asked.

"Yes," and that rather spoiled the story, "but these men didn't know I was capable of such things. They sat in the truck, terrified, but doing as I told them and sitting still. Sometimes all a person needs to do is sit still and not interfere.

"When the Soviet guards opened up the back of the truck and peered inside, those men had every reason to expect they would be captured. They were in enemy territory, in Russia, and I could only fool humans. Their dogs kept barking at us.

"Finally, seeing nothing of note—nothing but the empty back of a farmer's truck—they closed the doors and let us pass. And the looks of relief on those agents' faces helped me see that it was okay to tell people about mutation. My mutation probably saved their lives."

Well, the story had not quite done its job! Scott was in bed now, his head sinking into the pillow, but Charles realized that story had interested him. Now he had a reason to stay awake.

Charles took a breath and diverted his attention to another topic.

"There is a mathematic sequence known as the Fibonacci sequence. The sequence is formed by, having begun with zero and one, forming the next integer always through the sum of the previous two…"

That did the trick. A little math theory and Scott relaxed. Charles reached out and felt the peace emanating from his mind. After that earlier outburst, he had finally settled in for a rest.

It was better for now. Soon something needed to be done. He glanced at the door, then back to Scott. Then his gaze fell on something else. Scott had been sleeping on the floor and lying there under the bed was something Charles absolutely needed to retrieve... but could not reach.

Charles headed for the doorway. He truly had no idea how he could help. He had known things were getting worse, he just hadn't realized this bad was an option!

Charles glanced at Ruth. They exchanged looks—they understood one another's lostness in this situation and the pain of watching their child suffer—before he said, "He had his bear." Both knew Scott had to be low to sleep hugging that teddy bear again. "It fell under the bed, would you?"

"Of course."

Ruth slipped into the bedroom and Charles turned to Chris.

"This is your fault," he stated. "He wasn't like this until you arrived and this has gotten well out of hand, so I must ask, what have you done to my son? What have you done to Scott?"


	20. Chapter Twenty

_What have you done to Scott?_

The question hung in the air between Charles and Chris, an admission and an accusation at once. Charles said nothing further, waiting for Chris's move. Chris, for his part, seemed at a loss for words.

Charles could not honestly say he was sorry.

When Ruth returned, she needed only a moment to read the two men. She cleared her throat and indicated the bedroom door only a few feet away. She did not object to the conversation, but she was right: they needed to go somewhere private. It was ajar. In the quiet, they heard steady breathing.

A conversation needed to be had, but this was not the place. Scott couldn't overhear.

The three of them made their way to Charles's study. He had been mocked before for having a drinks cabinet (it was terribly posh of him, according to Sean and Alex), but at the moment, he needed a drink more than anything. He offered the same to Chris and Ruth. Chris accepted it.

"So you know," Chris said. He had settled in what passed for an armchair, too ornate to be exactly comfortable but up to the task of supporting a very tired body.

Charles nodded. "We know."

"And you know that I know."

Charles chuckled without humor. "Well, I am psychic."

"How long?"

"How long have you known about Scott?" Charles retorted.

"I suspected for a while," Chris said. "He looked just like… he couldn't be, but…"

None of them looked ready for a serious conversation. They were tired and tousled. Ruth and Chris were barefoot, Charles in socks. For the first time, Charles could not ignore how ragged Chris's voice sounded. This was happening because of Chris, of that he was certain, but the fact remained that Chris was a decent man. Or at least, behaved as such. Attacking him was easy but it wasn't right.

"This… behavior," Charles began. "The nightmares. He's always been prone to it, but it became so much worse when you arrived. You know what he's remembering, don't you?"

Chris hesitated. "I have an idea," he admitted, "but—"

"I've seen pieces of it," Charles interrupted. "Glimpses of memory. A crying child, blocks, something spilled… not enough."

Chris sighed. He buried his head in his hands for a moment. Whatever had happened, he was remembering now, trying to put it into words. Then he raised his head.

"You have to understand," Chris began, "this happened after the war. I was in the Pacific, I… in Burma… and they… there were horrible things. Worse than you can imagine. After I came home, I thought I would leave the war behind me but I was wrong. I had two sons I didn't know how to raise. Usually their mother was there, but if she wasn't, Scott, he, he pretty much took care of Alex. Kept him fed and entertained, out of the way, until Katherine came home."

_Alex, two years old, with his building blocks. He was stacking them higher and higher. He wasn't fully potty-trained yet and Katherine had just finished changing him when Chris came home. She had to go—wouldn't be long. So Alex sat on the floor with his blocks, wearing a shirt and a diaper. Getting that kid's pants on was a nightmare._

_Scott was old enough to be in school. He wasn't happy about it, but he was a good student anyway, working out of a primer. Forming his letters. (Badly.)_

_Alex shoved his blocks over. The tower toppled noisily, which seemed to give him no end of delight. He clapped his chubby hands, then started building all over again. The tower was only a few blocks high when he knocked it over, by accident this time, but that didn't stop him giggling and clapping._

_"Keep it down, goddammit!"_

_Alex's lip quivered._

_Scott set down his pencil. "Le's 'splore."_

"Scott couldn't speak clearly then," Chris explained at this point in the story. "There were certain letters that tripped him up… he was so young."

Charles nodded. "I understand. Go on."

"Couldn't even say 'Alex'." " Chris breathed a little easier as he recalled, "It was Alice for years…"

"This is rather off-topic." Charles knew he was being cold. Under other circumstances, he would listen to a man who needed to speak about his lost children—but Charles knew too well how that story ended. He knew where those children stood today.

They had more pressing matters to address.

"Yes, of course. I'm sorry."

_Scott coaxed Alex into the kitchen. Chris listened to them laughing. In their youth and innocence they seemed to think he would not, out of sight out of mind. Mostly he didn't react. Alex must have fallen—Chris heard a thud, and crying, but Scott comforted him. Before you knew it, they were playing again._

_They had so much energy, those boys._

_Katherine said to watch them, but Scott seemed to know what he was doing. Hell, he knew better than Chris did. And Chris… he was so settled in his armchair as he took a sip of bourbon._

"You were drunk," Charles realized. "You were meant to be watching the children, _your_ children, and you were drunk!"

It was, actually, something he could understand. Charles drank too much after Raven left, after Erik… after losing his legs. Life was a whirl of alcohol and hangovers and alcohol to fix his hangovers, until Scott. Even then, there had been a day after bringing Scott home that he overindulged.

He was ashamed of it, but at least that had been a 15-year-old. A broken one, yes. With only slightly less terrible penmanship. But not a kindergartener learning to write his name.

Chris nodded. He was pale and the look on his face bespoke the difficulty he had recounting the story.

"And tonight you and Alex were drinking."

"I wasn't drunk," Chris insisted.

"No, I know that," Charles said, "but Alex was a little unsteady. Alex has a history of... trouble with alcohol. And you were drunk that day.'

"Things were bad after the war."

"I'm gathering. Continue."

_So much energy, and Alex was just a little boy. He didn't have the self-control he needed. Was it any surprise when he came barreling into the room like a bat out of hell?_

_It was an accident, of course. He bumped the table running past, didn't mean to knock over the bottle. Probably wouldn't have known what he had done, but for Chris leaping to his feet._

_"Can't you stay out of the way, you little—"_

_He was drunk. He didn't know what he was doing, then he was on his feet with the belt in his hands and—_

"You beat a two-year-old child?" Charles interrupted. As difficult a story as this was for Chris to tell, it was worse for Charles to hear. He was shaking.

"You're not making this easier," Chris informed him.

It was a memory that haunted him as much as the day his wife died and recounting it was like nails in his soul. The constant interruptions were not helping.

"You'll have to forgive my lack of empathy in this particular situation, he was two years old—"

"No! Not Alex. I never touched Alex."

_"I hate you!"_

_This was 1943. Children did not say those words to their parents, especially little ones._

_Chris looked to Scott in disbelief. Then to Alex._

_"I hate you! I wish you never came home from the war!"_

_And it hurt. It really did._

_"Scotty."_

_"I wish you died there!"_

"I didn't know what I was doing. I was drunk." It was a bad excuse and Chris knew it, but he was approaching the end of his tether. His voice was strained and his eyes filling with tears. "The next thing I remember, Alex was playing with his blocks again. Scott was sitting by his schoolbooks. He was holding himself and he was crying—trying to be quiet, but he wasn't…"

_Chris looked over at him long enough to shout, "Shut up! Stop crying."_

_He couldn't. He was just a little boy…_

_"You want me to get rid of you?"_

_Scott flinched back. He sniffled and wiped his eyes on his wrist. "N-no…"_

_"Shut up or I'll sell you to the orphanage."_

_He looked away again. Looked at nothing. Went back to his drink._

_When Katherine returned, she was smiling. He remembered that—she was smiling, then she walked in and saw… "Oh, God. Scott."_

_"Mommy…"_

_She picked him up, looking panicked, looking around the room for another explanation. She looked at Chris, begging him to say there was another meaning to this. He sipped his drink and looked away._

"Katherine took the kids into the bathroom. It was the only room in the house with a lock on the door. She… they spent the night in there. And the next day, Katherine—the way she looked at me, I knew it could never happen again. It didn't."

The look on Charles's face was utterly unforgiving, though a part of him, deep down, gave Chris credit for looking him in the eye. At least he could acknowledge that he had done something terrible—been, in that moment, a terrible person.

"It's one of the worst things I've done."

"One of?" Charles asked.

"I've been—"

"I should hope that beating a five-year-old child is the lowest point of your life! What are you, Chris? A rapist? A murderer?"

"That's not—"

"You're a guest in this house, you matter to the people here, the people I love. I've let that happen. And you destroyed my son."

"He's my—"

"He is not!"

Charles didn't often raise his voice. He did not need to shout, usually. In that moment, even he was surprised because he hadn't shouted. He had roared.

"Enough." Ruth had been quiet until now, observing. She stepped forward and rested a hand on Charles's shoulder for a moment, caressed his cheek. "Enough, my love." To Chris, she said, "What you have done is unforgivable."

He nodded.

To his meager credit, Chris seemed to understand that. He looked deeply ashamed of himself. As he should.

"But your sons—you believed they died, yes? Lived for years with it. You do not survive this. You cannot do that and be the same person. There is so much…" her voice cracked and suddenly Charles realized she was not talking about Chris anymore, "…so much emptiness. You die with your children. So I do not forgive you, but I think perhaps I can trust you—or begin to. With children who will tell me if you do anything like this again."

Charles thought this over. Ruth could be a very powerful speaker when she chose to. She was a leader—unnervingly similar to Erik sometimes. But as much as Charles wanted for this to be over and to go back to bed, he needed more.

"I'm going to read your mind," he told Chris. "Scott can see through you, but Alex and Ororo look up to you. This is the only way I can trust you with them."

Chris nodded, accepting—resigned.

Charles brought his fingertips to his forehead and focused on the man in front of him. There were amazing things to see in Chris's mind: an entire universe of stars; dozens of species of aliens; the mountains of Alaska and the jungles of Burma. Beneath his memories was his personality. To Charles, it as a collection of feelings, a ball of instinct.

He rifled through it respectfully but mercilessly, through this thing others might call a soul.

After he had lowered his fingers, he regarded Chris for a moment. "I can't forgive you for what you did to Scott," he said, "but you do try to be a good person. And I have no right to keep Alex from you." He had gone too far with that decision. Alex was an adult… more or less. He could make his own choices.

Chris nodded. "Thank you."

"But Scott is not yours."

"I understand."

 _No,_ Charles thought, _you do not._

But he wasn't going to tell Chris about the mess Scott had been, about the nightmares and the panic and the trembling child who asked permission to eat. Scott was so much better now, but a part of Charles still felt the need to protect that child. A part knew it was not his story to tell, especially not to make a point.

"Will you tell me what he's like?" Chris asked. His voice was wrung and raw. "When he's not afraid—when there's not someone staying in his home, someone who… I'll give you—and him—all the space you want, but he's still… who has my son become? Will you tell me that?"

Charles wanted to. He heard the pain, felt that pain, and wanted to respond to it. He understood that Chris was a man who had lived with the pain of his wrongdoings and struggled to find redemption for them.

And he remembered the boy who struggled even now to believe that anyone would ever love him.

"No."


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

_With three days left of his leave, Chris nearly bumps into someone on the street, apologizes, starts to move on—but she apologizes, too. He takes a closer look at the small form in the heavy coat. It's filthy, that coat. So is the person inside it. Grime marks her face, but he recognizes the brightness in her eyes. Even dimmed, he recognizes it._

_"Katherine!"_

_She tries to move away from him. "I'm sorry, I don't—"_

_He grabs her arms, won't let her abandon him. "Katherine, stop."_

_"You have me confused with someone else."_

_A useless excuse: he has looked into her eyes, known her face, seen that she knows his. "Katherine."_

_She tries to pull away from him. It's nothing he's ever felt before, someone trying to fight away from him like this—he's not always the good guy but he doesn't hurt people. This is wrong—this is different—this is Katherine. The same Katherine who gave him everything in the shadow of a Peashooter._

_She loved him then. Why doesn't she love him now?_

_He can't believe she doesn't love him now._

_She wrenches away and he pulls her close. She's so thin now, but between them—_

_He swears. "Katherine?" he asks, gently, barely a whisper._

_They sit on the same side of the booth in a diner. He buys himself a coffee, buys her a hot chocolate because chocolate is supposed to be bad for you. He remembers that, his sister saying something about chocolate making her bloat._

_Most of Katherine could do with some bloating. (Not that he notices—not when she's so poorly, so thin, so dirty… but her breasts are looking positively delicious.)_

_"What about your parents?"_

_She shakes her head._

_He talks about Alaska while they drink. He tells her about the view from the base, the staggering mountains, the long days and the long nights he knows will come. "You'll love it," he promises her. He knows it's true. "You'll be happy there."_

_"Chris, I can't go to Alaska with you."_

_"Not as Katherine Marshall," he agrees. "Have to make an honest woman out of you first."_

_She wears her least patched dress, straining over her swollen belly; the ring is a piece of twine; she laughs as she wipes the tears away and blames it on hormones._

* * *

 

The following morning, Charles woke, dressed, brushed his teeth and combed his hair as he would any morning. Then he paused. He set down the comb and unbuttoned his shirt. The mirror showed bruising on his collarbone. Charles gingerly brushed his fingers over the marks.

After they parted ways with Chris, it took all of Charles's self-control to rant instead of shouting. Mostly he stammered. A key piece was clear, though: he wanted Chris gone.

Ruth had murmured vague agreements, kissing his neck.

He was angrier than he knew he could be.

She took off his shirt…

They both fell asleep soon after. It was around three in the morning after a nightmare and a very difficult conversation, and as he reflected on those events, Charles realized it was the best possible way to fall asleep. Too blissed to care.

Now he looked in the mirror and barely noticed what Ruth was doing, only that she was there.

"Ruth?"

There were times he resented her awakeness. How was she up and functioning at peak efficiency when he felt like an undergrad with his first hangover? She had already gone running. Normally, however, he didn't mind—Ruth wasn't shy about changing her clothes or toweling off after a shower and that was enough to make Charles very happy.

Today he wanted some sign that she, too, felt aching all over. Where were the dark circles under her eyes?

"Hm," she replied.

"I've done a terrible thing."

Ruth did not seem to understand how deeply he meant this, because her response was a light, "And what thing is this?"

"Chris being here…" Charles shook his head. "All that time wasted on Milbury."

"Who?"

"The man who ran the orphanage in Omaha. He used to… he hurt Scott. I don't know the details, he won't talk about it. I thought it was Milbury who made Scott the way he is. You don't know how he thinks, Ruth. He's so afraid of me. You don't know what that's like. He thinks I'll get rid of him, he…"

"Okay, Charles."

He had not realized how upset he was until she hugged him. All he felt was comfort and warmth (and her wet hair on his shoulder), and a vague awareness that he should have felt something more. Under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed this on a quite different level.

"Years trying to understand… and it's his fault. Chris showed him that no one ever would and he spent so many years just wishing for someone to love him. To keep him."

Charles heard how little sense he made. He heard himself jumping between subjects, between people. Bad nights were supposed to look better in the morning. This time bright light only showed the bruises more clearly.

"You do," Ruth reminded him. "You love him. You keep him."

"It's only now that he can step out of line and believe I won't. And he's still afraid I'll get rid of him."

"Charles, listen to me." Ruth drew back to look him in the eye. "I know it is not easy, but you need to stop feeling now. You need to think. You need to decide what is the best thing to do."

"He has to leave."

"And then?" she asked.

Charles shook his head, frustrated. "And then things go back to normal."

"Alex will not be upset?"

"Alex is an adult, he'll get over it."

"No, Charles, he will mourn and drink too much. Your son will care for him regardless of what this should mean."

They both knew it was true. The worse things became for Alex, the more devoted Scott would be—and they knew now that this was what Scott had always done. From the time he was barely more than a baby himself, he looked after his brother. It explained a lot about both of them.

Charles talked through the options: "I could bury it, make all of them forget, _maybe_ , but it's… if it's incomplete, and it might be—and Chris has to bear this, he has to—he's responsible. But he'll leave eventually. No, but as long as he's here, Scott—unless—but I can't hide it, I… I don't know," he admitted. "I can't tell him."

"Why not?"

"Because his drunk father beat him senseless! I can't ask him to carry that!"

Ruth didn't have to say it.

Charles reached the conclusion for himself.

"But he is already carrying it. It's eating him up and he doesn't know why." He took a deep breath. "And that's spilling over onto everyone in this house."

She sighed and, gently, stroked his cheek. "Now you understand, darling. Children make us so very vulnerable."

After he had buttoned his shirt again, concealing the hickeys on his collarbone—it had been years since he needed to worry about that!—Charles made his way outside. When he first lost the use of his legs, getting around was impossible. There had been no ramps. He had to be carried into the mansion and swore he would never leave it again.

He had the means to do anything available to anyone—more than was available to most. But the ramp that allowed him to leave his own home, the one by which he left now, had nothing to do with his resources. Sean, Alex, and Hank built it. Charles still didn't know how, he wasn't much with his hands.

"Chris?" he called.

Chris stepped out of the spacecraft. He looked chastised, uncomfortable, and Charles would not help but feel a bit pleased. He _should_ be uncomfortable.

"'Morning."

In fact, Charles had seen that look before—on Alex, when he did something very foolish. Summers charm indeed.

"I've done some thinking," Charles began. His chest felt light, like his lungs were to half-capacity but not with oxygen. Like he couldn't quite breathe. "It would be best for you to stay out of the mansion for a while."

Chris nodded, accepting. He wasn't going to challenge Charles at the best of times, certainly not now.

"I'll be explaining this to Scott. He needs to understand and that can't happen until… well, you should understand as well."

"I do."

"No, you don't," Charles replied. Even he heard that he had been too sharp. As angry as he had been back in his bedroom, here now he saw Chris as a remorseful human being. "Scott is a wonderful young man and I'm very proud of him, but it's been quite difficult for him to understand that. He's… he's struggled. You destroyed that child—it was one bad day for you, Chris, but it set the course for his entire life."

And for that Charles was truly, deeply angry. Chris might have spent the last years repenting and forgiving himself. Chris had known that was appropriate; he was an adult. No one taught Scott how to understand and since Charles had not known he had been unable to truly help.

Chris did not respond for a long moment. Charles was genuinely trying to be fair, to hold Chris responsible without being cruel. And it would have been easy to do.

"Alex doesn't have to know about this," Charles offered.

Chris nodded. "Thank you."

"And I am sorry for the way I behaved last night. I was angry and I said things I should not have."

"I understand that," Chris assured him. "I've done far less forgivable things in anger."

"There's something else. I'd like you to continue calling him Matthew."

"That's fair enough. You know, I never told anyone about what happened that night."

"Well, you left your children behind you—no, I didn't mean it like that," Charles said. It had been cruel to say and he knew it. "They were a different part of your life and you became a different man," he explained. That was all he had meant.

"You made me promise to leave him be," Chris said. That morning, only a few days ago, all he wanted was to know that his son was safe. Charles saw in Chris's mind that aching question: would Charles have told the truth?

He didn't know.

"Are you going to keep me away from my boys until I go?"

It was not asked with any suggestion that this was unfair. Chris truly wanted to know what Charles intended.

Charles shook his head. "I believe you mean no harm to them now. I also believe that your presence here has been nothing but beneficial to Alex and I'm grateful for that. He's an adult, anyway, he can make his own choices. You're Alex's dad, but Scott doesn't want or need the same. If he decides he wants you to be a part of his life, I won't object."

It was about the most Chris could hope for.

"You asked what he's like. Scott is… Scott has a very big heart. He puts others before himself and he doesn't give up on anything. Give him time. He'll forgive you."

* * *

 

Charles tried to remember that later, as he looked across his desk. Scott sat opposite him, holding a geometry book. They were overdue for a lesson, but that was an optimistic piece to bring.

Chris had said that Scott's heart came from his mother. Katherine, he said, had a good heart, too. Charles was not so sure. He was more inclined to think that Scott's heart was his own, not a gift from some genetic benefactor but his own strength and goodness.

"I'm sorry about last night. I didn't mean it."

"You're not in trouble. You could do with a haircut, though."

Charles added that in as a joke. Gone was the long hair that had caused so much confusion. Both Ruth and Charles mistook Scott for a girl the first time they met him.

Of course, there were other changes. Scott had grown, or carried himself differently, or a mix of both. He had more of a presence. Even now, exhausted and embarrassed, he took up more of the room than he had two years ago.

Scott was not in a place for jokes. He touched his hair, thinking about a cut.

"I read your mind last night, during your nightmare. I'm afraid this may be difficult, but I think it would be much better if you understood what had happened. You were right that your dreams are memories."

Scott nodded. That much was simple. To Charles's relief, he seemed to believe the lie about reading his mind—of course, he knew it from Chris.

The next part was more complicated.

"I'm going to find it, in your memory, I want you to see what happened. All right?"

Another nod.

"Now… try to relax."

The human mind is a complicated place. It was not like picking through a card catalog. Although Charles knew what he was looking for, he did not know where to find it. He had only the impressions gleaned from a psychic dip into Chris's memories.

Crying. That had been the strongest aspect of Chris's recollection, the way Scott looked and sounded, crying and trying not to.

So Charles chased memories that felt like that sound.

_Pain like his head would split in two._

_The tears didn't help. They wetted up his eyes and blurred the world and it came back into too-sharp focus and he hurt all over. The tears didn't help, but he cried anyway._

_It hurt._

_Then, suddenly, a hand gripped his hair, lifted his head, and smashed it down. He was lying flat on a very cold table. The impact made his ears ring._

_"Shut up!"_

_He tried._

_Wherever he was, it was bright and cold. He was scared. His head hurt so badly._

_He began to cry outright._

_Another smash, this time a fist against the table, next to his head. "What did I say?"_

_"Sh-sh-sh—"_

_A mutter: "Worthless little idiot." Then the figure beside him came into focus, a face looming too close, a hand gripping his chin so he couldn't look away. "I said shut up. Shut. Up. No whimpering, no whining, no speaking unless spoken to. Do you know what I'll do if you don't learn?"_

_His mouth didn't answer, but his body did. He wet himself._

_Mr. Milbury chuckled. Like a conclusion, "You are pathetic."_

_A needle pricked his arm. His body began to feel very, very heavy…_

The wrong memory.

Charles didn't want to go further. He wanted to rewrite that memory. Could he do that, he wondered. Could he revive that trembling little boy, stroke his hair and tell him that he was loved?

He swallowed and focused on the boy in front of him. The same boy, of course, but older now. At least it seemed that Scott did not know what Charles had seen; that was a mercy.

Charles once more delved into his memories.

It was difficult. Scott's mind had built barriers around certain moments and Charles understood why.

"Relax, Scott."

Forcing open his memory was the last thing Charles wanted, but it would be his only choice unless Scott let go.

"Take a deep breath… good… focus on my voice. There's no one else here. You're safe. You're fine."

Charles continued that way for a while, murmuring every soothing nonsense term he could bring to mind and all the while staying aware of Scott's mind. Slowly, the barriers around his memories began to lessen.

_"Chris, would you mind keeping an eye on the boys? I'll only be a few minutes." Katherine was already winding a scarf around her neck. Whatever had called her away, it must have been important._

_He nodded. "I will."_

_"Thank you." She hugged Alex, who squirmed away, and Scott, who let her kiss his forehead. "Be good for Daddy."_

_He tried to. He was quiet and working on his writing, the pencil held tight in concentration. Most of his name was difficult to write and Scott went through the entire alphabet obediently, with a little excited flutter at 'c' and 'o' and 's' (even though they were the hardest) and joy at 't' because he could write it properly. Well, much as he wrote any letter properly._

_Scott was good, but Alex was… Alex. He was all noise and energy._

_Scott was wary of his father, of this stranger, but when Alex spilled he drink Scott was scared. He was terrified. But he took care of Alex—Alex, who was little and innocent and didn't know any better._

_So Scott said the meanest things he could think of. They were a little bit true, deep down._

Scott's memory was worse. Hearing it had been painful, but Chris was drunk and barely remembered. Scott remembered.

Showing him that night meant remembering it with him. Charles knew he would have a difficult time talking to Chris for a while. He thought he had almost accepted that the man had moved on, but knowing what he had done and seeing it were two very different things.

He let the memory end when Katherine returned. It was the best place for it, with five-year-old Scott safely in his mother's arms.

Sixteen-year-old Scott had gone pale. His mouth gaped, but he could not put the words together. When he did, Charles wished he hadn't: "It was my fault."

"It was your father's fault."

Scott shook his head. "No, he—I knew what would happen—"

"Perhaps your mother should have known better than to leave you with him."

"Hey, don't—"

"Alex should have controlled himself better."

"That's not fair, he was only a baby!"

"So were you, Scott. You were a young child in far too big a situation and you did the only thing you could to protect your brother. There is no excuse for hurting a child."

"I… I would want to hurt someone who wished I was dead."

"You might want to," Charles allowed, "but you wouldn't. And you would never hurt a child."

"I don't know."

"I do. I know how your mind works, I know who you are. Even if you don't."

Scott pushed up his glasses and pressed the cuffs of his sweater against his closed eyes. He thought about when the Brotherhood broke into the mansion just a few months ago. He had put Angel in the hospital when he learned she had trained there…

"The Brotherhood broke into our home and threatened you and the other children. You defended yourself. I wanted you to know what happened not because it was your fault in any way, but so you would understand that it wasn't. What your father did to you, what Milbury did to you, none of it was your fault."

"But he was my _dad_. He was… why?" Scott asked, his voice broken in a dozen places. Like a little boy, "Why did he do that?"

Charles shook his head sadly. "I don't know."


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

The structure was a strange sort of place. It was like half a building, an outbuilding with no 'in' to it—or at least, an outbuilding where the only 'in' was behind lock and key. Ororo was surprised she had never discovered this place before. Somehow only now, as she searched the property in desperation for any scrap of diversion, did she find it.

The exterior was a small pavilion area. It had been planted with vines once, and those vines had been well-maintained for a time she had no doubt. They were wild now, half dead-brown and half bursting violet flowers.

She grinned and reached out to run her finger along a vine. The pavilion provided shade, too, a welcome relief from the July swelter. Had she been the type to settle down and read, Ororo would have read there. Even not being the type, she was tempted!

Instead she wandered around the side of the pavilion's wall. A case of wide stone stairs led upward, but Ororo was far more interested in the door. It looked old, made of thick pieces of wood held together with metal bars. A heavy padlock kept the place locked up tight.

She giggled. Who exactly did they think she was?

The lock thrilled her. Since arriving at the mansion, she had been free to go just about anywhere she wanted. Of course there were courtesy rules. She wasn't meant to go into other people's rooms without permission (although she did sometimes) or Hank's lab for safety reasons (she followed this rule because she liked Hank). Nothing was really forbidden, though.

This was.

This was clearly, obviously, pointedly forbidden.

Ororo had lost a lot in her life, but one thing she held onto was a set of lock picks. They were small enough to roll them up and hide them in her underwear—at least in America, where they wore the underpants with elastics around the legs. That made hiding the lock picks almost too easy—but 'too easy' did not stop Ororo.

She slid the picks out now. They were rolled up in a gray cloth so old it was worn soft all over. She opened the roll on one of the steps. Normally the large padlock would be no challenge to her. _Normally_ she would have two hands! With a cast on her left arm, she held two picks in her right hand and pinned her tongue between her lips.

It took a while. Between her focus and the heat, sweat began to soak into her hair and roll down her face. The lock was a simple one, but she had not picked any in ages. Combined with the single hand, the should-be-simple padlock seemed to take ages.

When the shackle finally gave a rasping sigh as it fell free of the body, Ororo grinned in triumph. She pulled the lock off the door and set it gently beside her picks. Then she pushed the ancient door open.

It opened into a dim space with damp-tasting air. It was a big space; she felt that from the hint of air currents. But it was dark and unfamiliar. Excitement mingled with fear in her chest as she took a tentative step forward. Under her foot were sounds of settling wood. She risked another step.

On her fourth step, the floor wasn't there.

She over-corrected her lost balance and crashed back. It wouldn't have been such a bad fall but for her instinct to break it. Her arms shot out. The left one connected hard with a stair, sending a jolt through her. It pinged hard against the healing bone.

Her eyes filled up and spilled over with tears. It _hurt!_ It hurt and it wasn't fair! (She had no particular reason to attach to this unfairness and—even more unfair—she knew it.) She scrambled up the dark steps and out of the strange little room, back into the light and heat.

Ororo returned the padlock to its ostensibly useful position, then rolled up her lock picks again and stuffed them into her underpants. Sometimes she used a pocket, but wanted them to feel especially secret today.

Then she continued to the top of the pavilion. It was a crenelated wall, old-fashioned and without much of a view to the south, where the mansion blocked views of anything but the mansion, but to the north she was higher than the estate wall. She focused on that over-the-wall place and thought about her power. She drew the wind to her from so far away—from over the wall.

It wasn't the same as leaving the grounds, but the fresh, cool air on her face felt a little like being able to go.

She had nowhere she wanted to go. Last Friday had been the first time she left the mansion without being prompted in months. She thought about what Chris said, what felt like ages ago but was really last week. She didn't want to go, but she wanted the option of going.

She stayed there, gathering the wind, until Ruth found her.

"What are you doing up there?" Ruth called.

Well, that was… taxing.

"Nothing," Ororo replied after a pause.

"Well, stop sulking and come down."

"I am not sulking!"

"Then start sulking and come down."

Unable to argue with that, Ororo only hesitated. She looked down at the ground and remembered being in an airplane, so high up she saw a long line where the ocean met the coast and the land below looked like puzzle pieces. Compared to that, she wasn't so high up now. Compared to that, she was only one step off the ground.

She bounded carefully down the stairs.

* * *

 

Ororo knew she had been a pain that day and told herself she couldn't help it. She had a restlessness in her and an anchorless frustration, impossible to deal with because it wasn't attached to one thing or person. It just _was_.

Finally, she asked, "How much am I grounded?"

Charles and Ruth glanced at one another.

"You said Scott could go running without telling you because he runs on the property."

Understanding, Charles told her, "You may go anywhere on the property."

"Grooves."

"Grooves?"

"Like groovy, only… grooves."

"Grooves it is then."

Ororo winced. "It's not groovy when you say it, Professor."

Charles laughed. "Excellent notion," he amended.

She nodded her approval before leaving the mansion.

If she was to be confined, at least her confinement allowed for privacy. Sometimes she needed to be by herself. It wasn't that she felt crowded or even intruded upon—she hated that and didn't know how Scott endured it. Charles was always keeping after what Scott did.

Ororo made her way to the end of the driveway. She drew the gate open and stood there, the toes of her sneakers at the edge of the drive. Then she edged forward. She put the toes of her sneakers over that line, the rubber crossing from Xavier land to public land. The toes of her shoes broke the groudedness rules, but the toes of her body didn't.

Scott took his time arriving. He was riding his bike, but slowed and hopped off when he saw Ororo. "Hey," he said. "Are you waiting for me?"

"No."

He looked so… right. He looked American, but like Charles, too, a little wild from the ride but dressed tidily, with a button-down shirt and all. There was an unnerving evenness in the way his shoes were tied, the bows identical.

"Nerd."

"Gnat."

He pushed his bike over to the post box and fished out a few letters, then started up the drive.

Ororo tagged after him. " _You_ don't call me gnat," she said. "You're not allowed."

"Okay, what am I allowed to call you?"

She thought for a moment. She had been called so many things—she was the Wind Rider to the Maasai, Squatter to a group of young thieves in Cairo, Ororo to the world she forgot in Cairo and the one she tried to inhabit now. Alex called her Gnat and he was allowed. Were names important? She wasn't sure. They felt like either everything or nothing at all.

"Queen of All That Walk the Earth."

He laughed. "Okay, Queen of All That Walk the Earth—so not birds or fish?"

"Birds walk."

"Rarely."

"Birds walk!" she yelped, not sure why that made her so angry. After a few furious breaths, she said, "Anyway, I need you to go somewhere with me."

"Go? Where?"

"Just… somewhere."

"You're grounded."

"It doesn't matter that I'm grounded."

"It matters to me. You—"

Ororo stopped still in the middle of the road. "Could you stop playing junior jailor for five minutes?" she snapped. "Just… stop trying so hard to be a grown-up. You're not, and you're not the Professor, and stop pretending you are when I want you to be my friend!"

Scott stared at her. Even through the glasses, she could tell. She imagined what they must look like to someone else. Like Alex, Scott had a couple of major advantages. He was white and he was a boy. He had no idea how much that mattered. Now he looked so intentional in every way, whereas she was a lopsided mess who couldn't even brush her hair properly with one arm busted. She hadn't let Ruth give her braids this morning.

Scott put down the kickstand on his bike, tucked the mail into his bag, then walked over and quite matter-of-factly put his arms around her. The hug made her shiver at first. She felt strange and then strangely at ease, letting herself lean into him. Scott looked scrawny, but, well, he was solid enough, wasn't he?

"Better?" he asked.

She hated to admit it: "Yes."

He stepped back and took the handlebars of his bike, then nudged up the kickstand. "So where is it you want to go?"

"I don't know. It's not part of the mansion but it's still on the grounds, so it's okay even though I'm grounded," with an unspoken 'Mr. Rules-Are-Best'! "I just… I don't know. Just trust me on this one, okay?"

"Okay. Now?"

"Later. At night."

"Okay."

"But when everyone else is asleep."

"Ororo, we're not supposed to! Besides, you want to get up after Professor Xavier reads to you? I thought you said it calmed you down."

"It does," she admitted, "but…"

He had a point. Being read to was the only time she liked reading and a nice way to move from daytime into night. But… when else were they going to explore?

"Let me think about it more," she said, lowering her voice as they passed the ship. It had become quite commonplace for them, the space ship on the front lawn. Chris must have been working inside, because she didn't see him when they walked by.

Scott nodded. "By the way, Mae wanted me to give you this." He took a book out of his bag and handed it to her. It was thick, probably a million pages (or maybe more like three hundred), and had a silly-looking title. It seemed made up, like those books Scott and Hank liked so much. If _they_ wanted to read about hobbits, they could do that—but she liked real things.

Ororo took the book with only mild disdain. "If this is a trick to make me read, you're going to need a lot more cleverness."

"It's no trick," Scott assured her. "Mae said you two had a talk and she really thinks you'll like this one."

Ororo sighed. Scott was a misguided fool sometimes, but he was being nice and she felt the lingering warmth of that hug. She held the book at her side. "Okay," she ceded, "maybe I'll try it."

Scott grinned.

"But only maybe!" she insisted.

"Only maybe," he agreed.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

  
The first time they tried this, Ruth said they were doing it wrong.  
  
Charles had not known there was a proper way to spend an entire day in bed. Ruth insisted junk food was required.   
  
With the kids mostly looking after themselves, Scott at the library and Ororo hanging around the spaceship or the construction, Charles and Ruth had decided to simply withdraw. Charles suggested it a few days ago, but Ruth insisted there was more to it than simply not leaving the room.  
  
She offered him a paper cup filled with orange juice. Charles sipped at it, considering the dozen donuts that were apparently necessary to a day in bed. He had to admit, they looked appealing. Easily the second most appealing thing on the bed.  
  
“It does rather defeat the purpose of a lie-in,” Charles observed.  
  
He was not a late sleeper by most standards, but the discipline of a dedicated student was nothing to that of a soldier. By the time Charles opened his eyes to a bleary world, Ruth had been into town and back. He awoke to a wide-awake Ruth tossing a box of donuts onto the bed.  
  
Not, of course, that he objected when she kicked off her jeans and bounced onto the mattress.   
  
He stood by his linguistic technicality, however: it wasn’t a lie-in if you started by getting up.  
  
“True,” she acknowledged. She sat cross-legged on top of the covers, wearing a close-fitting t-shirt and underwear, and making Charles wonder—not for the first time—how a woman like Ruth could love a man like him.  
  
He turned his attention to breakfast. Junk food had never been a preference of Charles’s, not permitted when he was a child and not often a temptation now. Those sprinkles looked awfully difficult to refuse, though.  
  
“This is not the first time I’ve envied your metabolism,” he said.  
  
She shrugged. “Well, I do not spend all day sitting on my ass.”  
  
He laughed. There were few people who could actually make him laugh about his paraplegia. And even better, she looked incredibly sexy while she did it.  
  
Charles grabbed a donut. “Going to have more ass to sit on now.”  
  
“It is a delightful ass.”  
  
He chuckled.  
  
“The more the merrier.”  
  
Very few people had seen Charles Xavier laugh orange juice through his nose.  
  
“I love you.”  
  
She kissed him. She tasted like sprinkles and he felt crumbs of sugar on her mouth, sensations he did not generally think so fondly of. Not until they were wrapped up in Ruth.  
  
“I love you, too. I love the life we have here because of you.”  
  
“But… that’s not what we were meant to discuss today, is it?” Charles acknowledged regretfully. He should have liked to discuss that more. Follow the subject to its conclusion.   
  
It was a rather solemn subject which took his attention away.  
  
“No,” Ruth acknowledged.   
  
Neither of them had openly stated the reason they needed these hours to themselves. It was true they normally had plenty of time alone, but not for them, not devoted to one or the other of them.   
  
“What was his name?” Charles asked. When he received no answer, he ventured, “You mentioned this, before.”  
  
She nodded. “I did.”  
  
“But I didn’t hear.”  
  
“I wanted you not to hear.”  
  
“But I should have done. I should have—I’m sorry.”  
  
She shook her head. She had stopped looking at him now. She looked at the distance instead, at the curtains pulled open over the window and the gauzy shade keeping some semblance of privacy.  
  
“I do not want sorry.”  
  
“And you did not want me to hear,” Charles replied, gently, “but, Ruth, I should have heard.” He realized he still had a donut in his hand and felt immensely silly. He set it down and brushed off his fingers. “I’m like Chris, you know.”  
  
“You are nothing like him.”  
  
“But I am,” Charles disputed. He was an aggravatingly matter-of-fact man at times, and he knew it. “It was Moira who found Scott and when she called me, all I wanted was to stay in bed. I was hungover and I was so sorry for myself. He was in that police station, lost and afraid, and I didn’t care.”  
  
“You didn’t know.”  
  
Charles shook his head. “No, that’s not true,” he said. “I heard in her voice that the situation was serious and I disregarded that. Moira appealed to my pride and because she did that, I went with her—not because there was a child in danger but because it might be exciting for me.”  
  
Ruth was not so affected by this story. Charles saw the love in her eyes, but not the understanding that he had done something quite wrong.   
  
“I have to be a better person because of Scott. Without my telepathy to tell me better, I disregarded Moira. I did the same to you. Because I can’t read your mind, I am too inclined to simply accept what you tell me. You tell me you’re fine and I believe it. I shouldn’t.”  
  
Her thoughts were actually becoming somewhat easier for Charles to understand. He could not quite translate them, but he understood her moods, a glimpse here or there. Not enough to dig.  
  
Ruth ate the last piece of her donut and licked her fingers clean. It was a deeply unfair act on her part, trying to distract him like that. She nearly succeeded.  
  
“I am not a student,” Ruth said, “and it is not your job to care for me.”  
  
“I care for you very much—and that is absolutely absurd. You constantly push me to do better, make the right choices. Constantly.”  
  
“What do you want, Charles? Apology? I lied to you, I apologize.”  
  
She made the words ‘I apologize’ sound remarkably like a crude suggestion. Best not make that suggestion. They would both be tempted to act on it.  
  
“You never lied. You told the truth,” Charles explained. “I apologize. I ignored you. What was his name, Ruth?”  
  
Ruth tilted her head back and exhaled at the ceiling.   
  
“Ruth. Please.”  
  
“Avram. My husband’s name was Avram.”  
  
“Avram. A soldier?” Charles guessed. He knew Ruth had been a soldier for most of her life, that if she met a man at work she probably met him in the military.  
  
So he was surprised when Ruth shook her head.   
  
“No, there are exceptions to service requirements. He was in the seminary.” Ruth must have read his surprise, because she chuckled. “I think you say I have a type?”  
  
That surprised him even more. Charles objected, “I’m not a particularly religious man.”  
  
“No, but you are studious. Avram was studious. Is studious, probably, he turned to his books after. Perhaps they made him happier. Perhaps…” She trailed off, shivered, and a tear slid down her cheek.   
  
“Ruth—”  
  
Charles reached out to her, but Ruth waved him off. “No, no, I am fine. It was a long time ago.”  
  
“Not so long.”  
  
“No,” she agreed. “Not so long.”  
  
He did not know what to ask, so he let the silence continue, hoping she would volunteer further information. She didn’t. It was strange to see Ruth this way. Charles realized he had never seen her vulnerable. Had he seen her sleep? She usually fell asleep later and woke up earlier.  
  
Certainly he had never seen her cry.  
  
Now she looked so far away and he didn’t know how to help. He couldn’t make her forget, did not even have the temptation—literally, he could not. Was this how normal people felt?  
  
“Come lie with me.”  
  
She looked at him like he had said something silly. Then she moved the donuts to the floor beside the bed and slipped under the covers. Usually, when he held her, he was very aware that she permitted that because she liked it. Now she needed him. Charles was not thrilled with himself for liking that.   
  
“I love you, Charles, you know this.”  
  
“I know,” he confirmed.   
  
“Remind me again why we are doing this. Usually when I have all day and a beautiful man in my bed I am not talking about the past.”  
  
Charles objected, “Men are handsome, not beautiful.”  
  
Ruth shrugged. “I think you are beautiful.”  
  
“Well, thank you very much, I supposed. And it’s my bed!”  
  
The smile she gave him reminded Charles that Ruth had a way of getting what she wanted. She had a way of making him want to give her the whole world, let alone presidency of the bed.  
  
He answered her earlier question, “We’re doing this because you always take care of us. You look after everyone around you, but you’re hurting now. Let me look after you for a change.”  
  
For a long moment, Ruth did not respond. Charles wasn’t certain she would—not with the truth. But she would certainly have something to say.   
  
The Ruth he knew and loved always had something to say.  
  
“The last thing I did, when I knew I must leave Israel, I had watched him, in the seminary, in his old life like nothing had happened. I thought there is pain in his eyes, but this is all. I wanted to destroy it. This is… you are not a man of faith, you do not know what this is like. To betray everything you have ever believed in, the country you have given your life to and the God you have loved… everything was gone. Everything. I was not me anymore.”  
  
Charles kissed her gently. He had never been surprised by the pain in someone’s voice as they bared their soul. She was right: he didn’t understand the feeling of losing one’s self, but he wondered if he made people feel this way. When he used this power, what was it like for them?  
  
“I love you.”  
  
“I was not the woman you love.”  
  
“I would have loved you anyway.”  
  
She laughed and wiped her eyes. “You are a romantic. So was Avram.”  
  
“You… at some time, you must have loved him, too.”  
  
“I did.”  
  
He wasn’t jealous. He had loved people before, physically and emotionally. He was no longer a young man who believed that only one’s first love was real.  
  
“I still do, somewhere. Very deep. We are not who we were, but I love him the way I love the other children from the kibbutz. But I think if I had to look at him again I would possibly break his neck.”  
  
With Ruth, that was a terrifyingly literal possibility.   
  
“Was it his fault?”  
  
She shook her head. “It was not so much his fault. But it was his fault. Who do you blame when they do not stop something they could no stop? But if I was there… Avram was sweet, but he was not even a soldier, nor anything like me. Only a man. I could have.”  
  
“Oh, Ruth…”  
  
He did not know why he assumed this mattered, besides he remembered that it had to Erik. He remembered that day in the water and how much it mattered to use someone’s name.  
  
“It will never not be true.”  
  
Charles held her closer. It was not a role he had ever taken with Ruth and he found himself quite gratified by the experience. He hated that it was happening but he loved that, for once, he could take someone in his arms and make them feel protected. For once he did not feel the absence of his legs: he felt strong. If only for her.  
  
“I miss him so much.”  
  
“I know, love. I know.”  
  
“When I see him now, I—he would laugh. Always he would laugh, and now I see him and he was laughing the last time I saw him he was laughing. I see him like this still, but in the dark… you cannot understand this, what it is like to feel empty. Like you are poison.”  
  
“You are not poison.”  
  
“No,” Ruth agreed, “I know this, but it is one thing to know, this does not mean I can decide I will not feel this way.”  
  
It was an interesting point and not one Charles could refute. He knew people did not control their feelings. They might control how the feelings influenced them, but she could not stop feeling the pain. She could not stop blaming herself.  
  
“What was his name, Ruth?”  
  
She sniffled. He did not expect an answer, not really.  
  
“Noah. My son’s name was Noah.”


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

Ororo was used to changing her clothes with the cast. It took some wriggling if she wore a tighter shirt, so pulling on one of Doug's cast-offs was always a relief. It was nice of Doug to leave them for her.

Well, it was nice of Doug not to ask for them back, anyway.

She shoved her dirty clothes into the laundry hamper along with most of her other clothes. She did not like doing laundry, so pushed the miniature mountain down to make it look like less. Didn't like doing the laundry but she knew she would if Charles asked.

Hearing the whisper of wheels in the hall, she hurried away from the laundry and leapt onto the bed, scrambling under the covers when she heard the knock. Totally innocent!

"You can come in!"

Charles did. "Good evening, Ororo. How was Day One of prison?"

She rolled her eyes. "Miserable," she groused. Being grounded was horrid! How did Scott handle it? And Ororo didn't even like to leave the grounds!

"One down, five to go," he offered. "A fairly light sentence, I think."

"Yeah…" she had to admit. It was only one week. The weekend did not seem to count, something they both knew. With the 4th of July picnic, the Xavier estate was quite hopping. Of course, it had been more than the holiday. "Is Scott gonna be okay?"

Charles considered before answering, something Ororo appreciated. He wasn't going to tell the whole truth, but she didn't expect that. She appreciated not being outright lied to.

"You and Scott have very different manners of approaching challenges, but you're both survivors. He'll see his way through this."

"He brought me a book."

Charles chuckled. "Sounds like him. Are you going to read it?"

"Um…"

"Would you like me to read it?"

"Will you try?"

Charles nodded.

Ororo handed him the book.

Charles opened it and flipped past the first few pages. He cleared his throat and began to read: " _Kon-Tiki_. Chapter One. A theory. Once in a while you find yourself in an off situation. You get into it by degrees and in the most natural—"

Ororo interrupted, "That's a math word."

"So it is," Charles acknowledged. "This was a well chosen book for you! …in the most natural way but, when you are right in the midst of it, you are suddenly astonished and ask yourself how in the world it all came about.

"If, for example, you put to sea on a wooden raft with a parrot and five companions—"

"Okay," Ororo interrupted again, "maybe this wasn't so well chosen for me. A parrot? And that's not even how they should be on the raft!" she objected. "That's not a good story. In a good story, they get shipwrecked, _everyone_ knows that."

As evidenced, even she knew and Ororo's exposure to western culture and stories had been quite limited. If she knew how the story was supposed to go, surely the author of the book ought to know!

"And if that happened, you would be indignant at the cliché," Charles pointed out. They both knew he wasn't wrong. He returned to the book: "If, for example, you put to sea on a wooden raft with a parrot and five companions, it is inevitable that sooner or later you will wake up one morning out at sea, perhaps a little better rested than ordinarily, and begin to think about it.

"On one such morning I sat writing in a dew-drenched logbook—yes, Ororo?" Charles interrupted himself this time, seeing Ororo's hand up to indicate she had a question.

"Logbook," she said.

"A record of a journey, sort of a Captain's record."

She nodded and brushed her hair out of her face. "But he's writing about writing about stuff," she objected. It was silly. It was pointless. It was _redundant_.

"Perhaps it was an important moment for him. The Heyerdahl story is actually a quite fascinating one, Ororo. When most people achieve extraordinary things, they do so not knowing the ramifications—the consequences—of their behavior. Remember Oppenheimer—"

"I am become death, the destroyer of worlds," Ororo recounted.

"Which is a quote from…?"

"The Bible?"

"The Bhagavad Gita," Charles said, "the Hindu holy text. Oppenheimer didn't mean to achieve what he did, of course. Heyerdahl only set out to prove a theory. It was—"

"Wait, wait. You've read this before?"

"No, but I remember when it happened."

Ororo's eyes nearly leapt out of her skull. "This is real?"

"Oh yes. It was a fascinating story. Heyerdahl had a theory—it was an experiment not undertaken in a laboratory like one I or Hank might do, but out in the real world. He was a man with the courage of his convictions." Charles was trying not to give away too many details, trying not to spoil the story, but he spoke with utter admiration for the man.

Not that Ororo would have been pleased to admit it, but she had to listen to the story for at last a few more nights now. She couldn't deny Charles the opportunity to read about this man he so admired. Besides, it was true. Something that was true was a lot different to hearing about than tornadoes taking girls on journeys to walk silver slippers down a golden road.

She settled deeper under the covers. There was always a danger she would fall asleep, these beds were so comfortable. The mattress no longer felt too soft as it had when she first arrived.

"I guess you could keep reading," she ceded. "If you really want to."

That night, Ororo learned that a fathom was a measure of six feet, glistening meant shiny, and people could be named Newt ("with a k"). She did not need to say how much she loved the lengthy passage about the eastern wind, though she did interrupt when the book recounted legends of Tiki, "son of the sun".

"Like Jesus?" she asked. Having done time in a Catholic orphanage, Ororo was more than a little familiar with the terminology. "The son, like the father, son, and holy ghost?"

"No, but I see the misunderstanding. Tiki was son of the sun, s-u-n."

Ororo's face scrunched in confusion. It was too late at night and her head was melting into the pillow. "Like star of the star or…?"

"Male child of the star," Charles clarified. "Though that is rather less eloquent a phrasing."

"Where was the writer from?"

"He's Scandinavian, I believe, name like Thor Heyerdahl."

"So he's white."

"Most likely."

"But he called his book Kon-Tiki. He acts like—he doesn't believe in Tiki, but he doesn't care about that. The nuns got all up their—"

"Ororo," Charles warned.

She pouted, but did not bother lying. She had been very close to obscenity. "They did, though. I never believed in Enkai or any of the other gods, Jesus included, but _they_ did. But Mr... Thor," Ororo said, deciding against even trying to pronounce Heyerdahl, "says he listened to Tei Tetua. Maybe he just didn't write about trying to persuade him otherwise."

"Perhaps," Charles allowed, "or perhaps Heyerdahl didn't mind what anyone believed. We respect other people's beliefs here, don't we?"

Ororo thought about that for a moment. Then she shook her head. "Not if it's Alex and cheese," she said, remembering the 4th of July Jarlsberg incident.

"Well, Alex was wrong on that particular matter," Charles agreed.

He returned to the book, reading until Thor Heyerdahl drifted off listening to the waves on Fatu Hiva. It seemed like a good place to leave the story and a good place for Ororo to get to sleep.

\-------------

After he left Ororo's room, Charles made his way to his study. He had taken to keeping notes about this endeavor and Heyerdahl's book only encouraged him to do more of the same. In general, Charles tried not to think about Erik. That was much easier. However, he remembered Erik's insistence that this new species be discovered by its own kind.

Erik had been right about that, but he had been short-sighted, also. Discovering the species was more than about discovering who had powers. It was about watching how those powers developed and how they impacted the people who carried them.

Charles knew Ororo had not been using her powers for more than the wind lately. He wasn't unaware. There had been a time she called up rainstorms on a whim; now she contented herself with breezes. Or rather, malcontented herself.

He was recording observations when he heard a tentative knock at the study door. He did not need his telepathy to know who it was.

"Come in, Scott."

Scott looked like he either was ready for bed or had just left it. He wore his plaid pajama pants and black t-shirt, both a little worse for wear. His expression as he approached the desk held nothing but discomfort and Charles didn't know why.

Scott took a seat opposite him. "I, um… I wanted to ask you about something."

Charles closed his notebook and put it aside. He thought about the day Ruth accused him of spoiling the children. If he did, today he was happy to do so. He couldn't imagine saying no to anything Scott wanted—although that was perhaps informed by the fact that all Scott ever wanted was attention and love.

"What is it?"

"Well…" Scott looked over Charles's shoulder as he explained, "Ororo and I sometimes… listen… to the conversations inside the ship, and today Mr. Summers was telling Alex about before I was born. He said that… that my, um, that Katherine and Chris, they were both working on this Army base outside Dayton. She got pregnant." The word made him blush faintly. "My mom—my mom from before—she was only sixteen. She was two years older than Ororo. He said her parents told her she could go away somewhere as long as she said that she didn't want me. Her parents kicked her out and she was living almost homeless."

Charles had no idea. "She sounds like a remarkable woman." He meant that. The thought of Ororo pregnant a couple of years from now was rather unsettling, but the thought of a sixteen-year-old, pregnant and alone, somehow surviving… it truly was remarkable. It must have been during the Depression, too.

Scott veered off, "I thought people could only have babies when they were married."

"Most people mean to, but accidents do happen."

That was quite sweet of him to think. Charles realized Scott may have had gaps in his education on these matters. Most boys learned it from their fathers or friends, but back in Omaha, Scott had never managed to make friends. As for his father, Charles had never seen reason to broach the subject of romance. It wasn't a part of Scott's life yet.

"But what, um… I mean, how… when is…" Scott babbled, turning a blistering shade of red.

Surely he wasn't asking...

"I-I know the basics," Scott continued. "I mean—a man and a woman, and all that, but I don't… not sure what… how they…"

Oh good God.

"Are you asking me where babies come from?"

Unable to look at him, Scott nodded.

Few people had ever seen Charles Xavier freeze like a deer in the headlights of a bulldozer.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

_Chris and Katherine laugh often now._

_Much about their life is hard, but that doesn't matter when they are together._

_Katherine doesn't fit in with the other wives. Chris is something of an up-and-comer, well enough liked that others are suspicious of the girl he brought home already near-baked, just browning the crust. They don't trust her and she does spot-on impressions of their disapproval._

_The days have little light, so she makes their home as bright as possible. She paints flowers all down the hall. She finds the tiny local library and resolves to read every book in it._

_All she wants to do for the rest of her life is lie beside him._

_They talk about names, but neither of them seems able to be serious about it:_

_"Hortense."_

_"Jereboam."_

_"Hiram."_

_"Hezekiah."_

_"Reuben."_

_"Reuben?"_

_"I like that one."_

_"Why don't we call him Turkey on Rye?"_

_"Oh, he's a him today? Yesterday he was a her."_

_"Yesterday I was trying out hers, today I'm trying out hims. I want to be ready for either."_

_"Great, can you pick up some mustard tomorrow in case it's a turkey on rye?"_

_Chris loves his wife more than his planes, but she has over a month left when he is assigned to test a plane's solo-flight long distance capabilities. He promises to think seriously about baby names while he flies and have a suggestion better than Macaroni and Cheese. (Because, as Katherine points out, they are not having twins.)_

* * *

"Wake up."

Scott vaguely heard the words, but he did not respond to them.

"Wake up!"

A shake accompanied the command. This time he did react, groaning in objection to the time. He felt how early the hour was.

He sat up and put on his glasses.

The light through the window was weak and gray, but enough for him to make out the form standing over him. Not that he needed details: there was only one person so small and slight in the house. The outline showed him—unnervingly—curves. Did Ororo always have curves? Where did she find those?

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing. Why do you assume something's wrong?"

"Because it's…" Scott reached for the clock, squinted at it, turned on the light and squinted again. "Five in the morning. You don't like mornings." That was no secret to anybody!

"Remember I asked you to go somewhere with me?"

Scott nodded and covered his mouth while he yawned. She woke him up to ask if he remembered a promise? He did—and wanted to go back to sleep now, please.

"Let's go."

"What—now?"

Ororo nodded. "Now."

Scott groaned and flopped back onto the pillows. He was definitely not going anywhere now except back to sleep. Already he was dreading getting up in an hour and a half to go running.

Ororo hopped onto the bed. "It's perfect!" she insisted. "Scott, it's perfect!" She said it while she nudged him, too close. Ororo had never much cared for personal space and it was only in the context of that previous evening's conversation that Scott was uncomfortable with the closeness.

"'S not, go to sleep," he mumbled.

"Listen, no one else is awake! So we can go now and it'll still be a secret, but we're on the grounds, so no one gets in trouble. Scott, please!"

Scott still didn't want to… but he heard in her voice how badly Ororo wanted this. No, not wanted—she needed it. He didn't know why, but he knew that he couldn't say no. He had sort of promised.

"Okay. Just give me five minutes to get dressed."

"You're the best!" she said. She hopped off the bed and hurried for the door while Scott once more managed to sit up, bunching the covers over his lap.

"Actually… fifteen minutes?"

"Ten. And don't go back to sleep!"

Scott promised he would do no such thing.

When Ororo knocked on the door eight and a half minutes later (ten had been too much to ask), Scott was just buttoning his jeans. Whatever she had in mind, he assumed he should dress for easy laundering.

"Aren't you ready?" Ororo asked.

Scott gave her what was meant to be a withering look. "How are you this perky?" he asked. He had to smile, though.

Ororo could act bossy and superior sometimes. Right now she was a fourteen-year-old girl sporting a cast, a too-big t-shirt, and the worst bedhead he had ever seen. In her hand was the emergency flashlight from the kitchen. She was just herself and Scott loved her for it. She was straightforward when she wanted something and she didn't want to talk about the things he wanted left unsaid.

So he shook his head to his own question, smiled, and said, "Forget it. Let's go check out this mystery place."

Neither of them spoke as they crept out of the mansion and into the twilight. They knew there was no true hiding. If Professor Xavier wanted to find them, it was the work of a second. They pretended anyway.

Ororo led the way to the outbuildings she had discovered a few days before.

"I don't know what it is," she explained. "Is this an American thing? Like a storm shelter?"

"No… a storm shelter is underneath the house, sort of like the bomb shelter is. You want to get there quickly if a storm hits."

"Oh." She sounded disappointed, but wasted no time on that: "Well, it's not to store your extra grain…" she speculated as she fumbled with her lock-picks. Scott could not pick a lock at the best of times and could not help being awed when Ororo worked the rusty padlock free in under two minutes, broken arm and all.

He chewed his lip when she heaved the door open. When she turned to him, the look on her face was one of absolute joy.

He couldn't ruin that.

"Nice," he said, indicating the padlock.

Ororo rolled her eyes, downplaying the compliment, but she was pleased. They both knew it.

She picked up the flashlight again and switched it on. Scott could not bring himself to tell her that not only did he know where they were, the thought of it made his stomach knot. How could he? She seemed so thrilled. So when she stepped down to the first stair, Scott prepared to follow her.

The morning was warm even without the sun risen, but as they made their way into the dim room, the temperature dropped. Scott felt nerves tangling up inside of him. Unlike Ororo, he knew where they were: somewhere he did not want to be, somewhere unexciting, and somewhere he worried would disappoint her.

There were only a few stairs. When she reached the floor, Ororo paused and shone the flashlight around her.

Scott nudged her. "You're blocking me."

She took a step forward.

"Remember the day I broke my arm?"

He had made his way to the wall and was reaching blindly for something.

"Yes," he remembered that day. It was hard to forget. Scott had been so worried about her. It wasn't the broken arm—he knew that was a fairly minor injury. It was the hospital.

"What if," she began, sounding very young, "what if it wasn't how everyone thought?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if I didn't fall off the ship?"

Scott found what he had been looking for: the light switch. He had known there would be one. Now he flipped it and let light flood the room.

"What do you mean?"

"What is this place?" Ororo asked, marveling at racks of countless bottles.

"It's a wine cellar. What do you mean, you didn't fall?"

"There's so much here!"

It was true. The cellar probably had hundreds of bottles, maybe even a thousand. Maybe more than that.

"Ororo."

She stepped forward and grabbed a bottle at random. "Hey—there are so many. Who would miss just one?"

"What is it with you and booze lately?"

She shrugged.

Scott strode over and took the bottle out of her hands, placing it carefully on the rack. "You don't need alcohol. It makes you sick and takes away your humanity, it's like… Jekyll's potion."

Even before she asked, he knew what the question would be: "Who?"

"Never mind. Just don't think drinking makes you cool, okay? It makes you stupid."

"Maybe I want to be stupid."

"You think stupid is the worst someone can be."

It was true. Ororo knew she was clever and was proud of that fact—not at all subtly so. She liked being the smartest person in the room (as she currently was) and liked reminding him of that fact. Scott didn't mind because he knew she was trying to make up for how he understood American society and she often did not.

It remained so: Ororo did not want to be stupid.

She sighed and crossed her arms, scowling at him.

"Did someone push you off the ship?"

"No!" she yelped, frustrated. "No, nobody pushed me, I just… I just… do you know the _Oz_ stories?"

He didn't understand how that was relevant, but Scott nodded. "I know _The Wizard of Oz,_ " he said. He knew there were other books but had never read any of them. He knew that one because he had seen the movie.

Ororo started down a row of wine bottles. Scott followed, worried about what she might do if he didn't. The place seemed pretty boring to him. It was filled with wine bottles and nothing else, and Scott had meant what he said to Ororo. Alcohol made people their worst and dumbest selves.

Nevertheless, he wound through the shelves with her. Had it not been stacked with wine, this would have been a great place to be. It was nice and cool, almost cave-like but not in an unpleasant way.

"So you've heard of tornadoes," Ororo said, re-starting their conversation quite suddenly.

"Sure. We get them in Nebraska—not a lot, and Omaha's pretty far east which I think means we're less likely to—but yes, I know about tornadoes."

"And they're real?"

"Yes."

They had reached the stairs again. Having the sense that they were leaving now, Scott went to turn off the lights again. They would probably not be in trouble for this, but he wanted to leave the place as they found it, anyway.

"Do you think I could make a tornado?"

"Sure you could. You don't really use your power anymore," Scott observed, following Ororo out of the wine cellar. He pulled the door closed and slipped the padlock into place.

Ororo shrugged. "Not so much."

It was a simple question: "Why?"

"Because."

"Okay."

They started back toward the mansion.

"Are you gonna run?" Ororo asked.

Scott shook his head. "Not enough time. Besides, taking a day off sometimes is okay. Are you liking that book Mae sent home for you?"

" _Kon-Tiki,_ " Ororo recounted. "Yes. It's interesting. I like that it's true."

"I'll tell Mae."

"Smug bastard."

Scott only chuckled, perhaps the most infuriating thing he could have done. Even with her cast, Ororo was not above hitting him—or maybe it was because she had forgotten about the cast. If so, she remembered when it connected with his shoulder and yelped.

Scott was less than sympathetic. "You knew better," he told her. He'd had broken bones and knew that Ororo was hurting just then, but she _had_ hit him. "Do you want pancakes for breakfast?"

"No," Ororo grouched. "Yes."

"No or yes?"

She sighed. "Yes."

They made their way into the kitchen together. Ororo took out a mixing bowl and wooden spoon while Scott put together the ingredients they would need. The last thing Ororo did to help was take out a pan and place it on the unlit stovetop. Then she hopped onto the counter.

Cooking was very much not her forte. The best thing Ororo could do was stay out of the way and they both knew it!

"When I'm un-grounded, can I walk you home again sometime?" Ororo asked.

That was what got her grounded in the first place and Scott was secretly pleased she had not blamed him for that.

"If you ask permission first, that would be nice."

Ororo rolled her eyes. "Of course if I ask permission!"

"Then, yes. That would be nice."

"Stupid."

He gave her a warning look.

She stuck out her tongue.

When he didn't give in, she changed the subject to, "But, a tornado. It could really pick up houses?"

Scott nodded. He focused on the half-cup measure in his hand, carefully leveling off the flour before dropping it into the bowl. "They're really dangerous, Ororo, but we're lucky. Nobody has more experience helping people learn to use their mutations than Professor Xavier." He did not know that for a fact, but stated it with certainty nonetheless.

She watched him finish with the flour and move on to the salt. Only when he was dumping sugar into the bowl did she blurt, "I want to fly."

Scott looked up sharply. He was quiet for a moment, working through this. Then he said, "In a tornado." It was only half a question.

Ororo nodded.

"And when you broke your arm, you were trying…?"

"Yes."

Scott considered that for a moment. On one hand, tornadoes were frightening and very dangerous, and he wasn't certain Ororo knew that. On the other hand, he had yet to see her lose control of her powers… even though she rarely used them these days.

Finally, he concluded, "I bet you could do it."

She grinned at him and Scott knew it had been the right thing to say.

  
  



	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For context, $1.15 an hour was the minimum wage in New York in 1964.

Alex gave his grinder a couple of twists and tapped its contents onto a rolling paper. It was nine a.m. in July, already hot and sticky—he already felt like he'd painted jam on his pits. (Not that he had ever painted anything edible there.)

(Not that he would admit to in public.)

He leaned against his car, getting ready for the day. Mentally preparing himself, with a little boost. He already wore his uncomfortable shirt with the starchy collar, the utter dip of a hat sitting on the front seat.

"Aren't you working today?" Chris asked.

Alex still did not know how his dad managed to do that. Maybe Alex's awareness slipped at the mansion. He did feel safe here.

"I am," he confirmed.

Chris's exile from the mansion was no secret to Alex, who consequently spent more time with his father in the ship. He had no idea why Charles made the decision he had, only that it meant less of Chris, despite what Alex wanted. As per usual! Chris was being treated like he didn’t belong and no one would tell Alex what was happening—so he felt like an outsider, too.

Had he ever not been invisible in this place?

Chris gave Alex a disapproving look. "Shouldn't be using that before you work."

"It's just a cigarette."

Chris took it and sniffed. "We had this when I was your age, too."

"When you were my age, you had two kids."

"I had one kid and a pregnant wife," Chris replied, "but I still knew reefer when I smelled it."

Alex sighed. How was he invisible and yet so prone to getting into trouble?

"Look, my job… it's boring. Okay? And it's not like a little weed's gonna knock me out. It'll just make a miserable day go quicker."

The logic did nothing against Chris's disapproval.

"Dad, come on! How is this any different from me and you having a few beers?"

"Well, for one thing, it's nine o'clock in the morning," Chris reasoned. "I know I wasn't around to raise you, but I'd like to think no son of mine is afraid of an honest day's work."

"I'm a cashier at the drugstore."

Chris shrugged and handed the joint back to Alex.

"I'm not afraid," Alex objected. Fear and not wanting to be bored were very different things!

Chris offered no more arguments, but Alex still found himself sighing and depositing his stash in the glove box. He could always change his mind later. Meanwhile, he grudgingly offered an almost pleasant, "See you later, Dad."

Within the hour he regretted the decision.

Shifts at the drugstore stretched on into eternity. Then took a turn and came back through eternity, remembered they had forgotten something at the Just Past Eternity Inn, doubled back, ran out of gas and had to thumb it to the nearest station but finding someone—anyone—else in eternity was impossible, so they walked.

Shifts at the drugstore were a bit like that.

They carried on far, far longer than they had any business doing, until they bordered on torturous. It was an uneventful job that consisted primarily of ringing up purchases—men's over-the-counters, kids' ice creams.

Alex had gone in stoned a few times. It didn't make a big difference in his performance. Today's shift seemed to be dragging on extra slowly, like it knew he had been caught that morning just about to ease the pain of it.

The weirdest part about working a retail position was that customers assumed you were an expert, like because you worked for $1.15 an hour in a shop that sold over-the-counter medications next to the candies, you knew what you were talking about.

"Now on this one," the customer began, "the active ingredients are…" and he laboriously sounded out the scientific terms, "and this one…" again with the science. He was an older fellow, gray haired where he had any hair left, with Coke-bottle glasses and liver spots on his hands.

Alex let the words buzz around him. The trouble was that those scientific terms needed someone like Hank to translate them—but Hank, with his qualifications and giant juicy nerd-brain, would not be working for minimum wage.

"…which would you recommend?" the man concluded.

He would recommend not needing hemorrhoid cream.

Alex had learned not to snicker when asked questions like that, but it remained very much not his forte. He could recommend acne washes to pimply geeks—he even bought one for Scott once, during a particularly bad few weeks, which remained secret because Scott was too embarrassed to claim Alex was teasing him. (He wasn't.)

Hemorrhoids? Alex was twenty-three years old. All he knew about hemorrhoids was they happened to your butt. Or possibly your gear, he wasn't sure, no one really talked about these things.

"Uh, this one seems popular," he offered, indicating the yellow tube.

He had no idea. The other one was a sickly green color and you wanted something bright and cheery, didn't you? When you had butt problems? (He really hoped he died before he got old.)

The customer thanked him and counted out exact change.

Alex visibly exhaled after he left.

It wasn't that he hated the customers. Actually, that one had been downright friendly, if a little misguided. He just did not know what to tell them.

At the end of the day, he was all too happy to take off his stupid hat and head for the door. There was that delightful stash in his glove box and he really needed it right about now.

"Summers! Where are you going?"

He paused and took a breath before turning to look at his boss. The man had not said anything aggravating yet, but Alex knew he would. He had heard enough aggravating things from this man that just the sound of his voice grated.

"Goin' home," Alex replied. "My shift's over."

"Not yet," his boss said. He held out a broom.

"It's been eight hours," Alex pointed out.

"So? I thought you were saving up for school. You ought to be grateful for the extra hours. Stop complaining and sweep up before I fire your sorry ass."

Alex might have quit then and there. He had such moments nearly every day he worked here, moments he was on the verge of quitting. He didn't, today, because he remembered the hemorrhoid man from earlier and bit his lip to keep from laughing. _I'm not the one with the sorry ass, man…_

By the time Alex made it home, he was in a foul mood. He sat in the garage for a few minutes. After a while he reached over and pulled his weed out of the glove box. It was just to make him feel a little better. It took the edge off the day. Still, a part of him felt rebellious as he did.

_Okay now, right, Dad?_

He had put in more than too many hours at his stupid, pointless, bullshit job. He wasn't really mad at Chris, either—just needed a few minutes to calm down before he could go help him with the ship.

Fixing a ship was in some ways similar to fixing a car, in other ways totally different. Alex understood that this particular type of ship was new to Chris, too, so they were exploring it together. Still… it was just different. Alex could rebuild a diesel or gas engine, but the way this ship was designed, it didn't have one power source but a constant resupply from its body.

He wondered what Chris would tell him today, what new thing he might have discovered about the craft. Alex himself had noted a few important things… but mostly he was learning. That was okay with him. Just being with his dad was great.

They talked while they worked. Talked about things, about life. About Sean and before. And Chris hadn't once given up on him or seemed mad or called him a loser.

Alex wondered what Chris would say about what happened at work today. Maybe he would think Alex should just do as his boss asked. Maybe he would say earning money for his education was important.

The truth was, and Alex knew this, he hadn't taken the job because he needed a way to pay for school. He had taken the job because he didn't want Charles to offer him for money for school—which Charles had done anyway, and Alex had accepted and earned less than fantastic grades, but that was after Sean.

Before, he had been doing better than ever…

"Alex? Time for dinner."

Alex startled awake. He was in the front seat of his car, halfway conscious. His mouth felt dry and sticky—dehydrated saliva, like the trickle on his chin. Alex wiped that away and stretched. "Shit, already?"

"You fell asleep," Ororo observed.

"I wasn't asleep."

"You looked asleep."

"Wasn't asleep, gnat. I was fooling you. Worked," he added, giving one of her braids a tug as he went past.

"Hey!"

Alex laughed and let Ororo shove him.

The idea of dinner sounded excellent. (Really, the idea of cookies sounded excellent, but dinner would be good, too.) Alex took his usual spot, noting the continued absence of Chris.

Suddenly that joint seemed like it had been a really bad idea. The calming down, chilling out half-hour (hour?) in the garage had been nice, but it cost him his time working with his dad. Alex sighed. He had a place with dad… now if only his dad could have a place here!

"Everything okay, Alex?"

He loved how Ruth said 'okay'. She sounded utterly unnatural saying it—it was adorable.

Alex pushed a half-chewed mouthful of noodles into his cheek. He didn't want to think what Ruth and Charles had spent the day doing, but a one-pot dinner always meant Ruth had been distracted.

"Yeah, I just—I was thinking," it was a bad idea and Alex knew that, but when had that stoppered his big mouth? "I was wondering when my dad was gonna be off the shitlist."

"Alex," Charles said.

Alex knew what Charles meant: don't swear. He had not needed to say 'shitlist', there were better ways to express that, and so forth. Set an example. All the greatest hits on one record! Drop the needle and let the good times roll!

"You kicked him out of the house!" Alex objected. He did not care to be told off. Yes, he had sworn at the table and that was wrong—somehow. Wasn't refusing to acknowledge someone's family worse?

Alex had suspected since the first night Chris was absent. Charles confirmed it by glancing at Scott, Scott by looking away.

"Chrissakes! I knew it!"

"Alex, can we discuss this later?" Charles asked. There was an edge to his voice, a request and a warning.

The right answer, Alex knew, was yes.

The only person still eating was Ororo. She was pointedly calm and collected throughout. Hank looked like he was trying to disappear; Ruth observant, calculating; and Scott, who was utterly responsible for this, looked desperate.

"He didn't do anything," Alex said. "Scott's having bad dreams again and you can't help him so you're taking it out on Chris! It's not fair, Charles, and you know that."

Charles looked between Alex and Scott, back to Alex, and began, "It's more complicated—"

"It's not."

It was. Alex felt a hot jab of shame that he used his brother’s nightmares to hurt Charles. Was that really worse, though, than their pretending the nightmares didn’t happen? Like Alex didn’t hear Scott crying out, like it wasn’t his business? And there was the heart of the matter. It was Scott who insisted they were family, and now he pushed Alex away.

And it hurt.

Charles opened his mouth, but it was Scott who answered.

"Dad, please."

Alex wasn't sure what it was: the stress in Scott's voice, Scott calling Charles that, or just… Scott. Just his stupid, useless brother, who he wanted to hate but he loved too much. But something made the fury in Alex switch on.

He did his best.

As he left the room, he didn't hurl his plate at the wall.


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

_Katherine groans._

_She screams._

_It's too soon!_

_"Almost there, sweetie."_

_Through the haze of pain and exhaustion she feels embarrassed. When she dropped her dress and gave herself to Chris, it felt right. Yes, she felt cold and a twist of nerves and he tried to be gentle but it still felt strange as much as good, but this was what she wanted. She knows she should be more mature, but now she is sharing intimate pieces of herself with indifferent doctors and nurses with nametags she can barely read._

_The nurse says something about a few more centimeters and pats her knee._

_—just tell us you said no—_

_Her parents offered her a deal. All she had to do was admit that she said no and get rid of the baby and they could pretend this never happened. It wasn't her fault: she was young and weak. She had been mistreated, overpowered._

_Her body betrays her again. She grabs the rail at the side of the bed and tries to "breathe through it", as the nurse told her, but all she can do is pant and whimper._

_—you won't be alone. There are places for girls like you—_

_She says his name. Over and over, she tells herself that he will walk through that door just in time. He found her in Akron, in the city they both know she fled to in that tiny hope not that he would see her, but that she would see him. Just one more time._

_"Please," she begs, "it's killing me, I need him. Please."_

_"I'm sorry, Mrs. Summers. Your husband isn't back from his assignment yet."_

_She trusts this nurse, the one with the scar through her eyebrow. She's right to. Katherine has been here all day, crying and screaming and begging for her husband, so twisted up inside the nurse used her lunch break to ask after Chris Summers._

_So Katherine looks into her eyes and begs instead for honesty: "Am I going to lose my baby?"_

* * *

 

Scott volunteered to clean the kitchen, insisting he wanted the time to think. No one questioned this—Scott had volunteered to do the same and for the same reason before. Cleaning helped him find a sense of calm. It was the instillation of order on chaos. It took a bad situation and made it good.

What could be better?

He had a system for this. Scott actually preferred cleaning the kitchen alone. The only person he liked working with was Doug, who had an uncanny knack for working together with someone else. On his own, Scott started by scrubbing the dishes. Then countertops, cutting board, and a check of the fridge—not everyone remembered to dust the top of the fridge doors and they collected a lot of dust.

The one chore he skipped was taking out the trash. He would claim, if asked, that he was being lazy because of the oppressive heat. It was bad in the kitchen, but walking outside was like stepping into a sauna. (He had read that somewhere. What he lacked was practical sauna experience. It sounded unpleasant—like it would fog his glasses.)

The truth was that he did not want to go past the ship. He didn't want to see Alex or Chris.

"Scott."

He preferred to clean alone. There were three people who wouldn't try to help: Alex, who would try to hinder; Ororo, who would prefer to perch on the counter and snack; and Charles, who knew that cleaning was simply not his forte.

"About what happened at dinner?" Scott guessed. He stood at the cupboard, putting away the now-dry plates.

"What happened at dinner was…" Charles sighed, apparently giving up on summarizing what happened at dinner. There really were not words for such things.

"Look, I think I have a solution," Scott said.

"Oh?"

He placed the last of the plates in the cupboard and turned to face Charles.

"But Mom won't like it. I'll need your help convincing her."

The look on Charles's face was difficult to read. There was reserve there and uncertainty, too, but not without the desire to trust. He was in as difficult a situation as Scott.

Scott took a deep breath. "I think I need to leave."

"Scott—"

"I can't be here anymore. What I'm doing to Alex—it has to stop. I talked to Doug a while ago, I know if I need to, he'll let me visit him. It's just for a little while," Scott hurried, seeing an objection brewing. Charles would see it like Ruth did. Charles wouldn't understand, either.

Charles shook his head. "You're not a prisoner here. If you want to visit Doug, you may. But I think it would be a mistake. You're capable of much more. Part of becoming a good man is not acting based on what you think you're limited to but what you wish you were capable of."

Scott thought about that. Becoming a man was a rather strange idea and one he struggled to reconcile with the boy he felt like. Had most people told him he was becoming a man, he wouldn't have been able to agree—but Charles seemed to be implying that, and he trusted Charles.

"If I can't," Scott began. "If I'm… limited. Does it make me a bad man?"

"Of course not. Most people go through life never differentiating themselves as good or bad, simply being, and that's fine for them. I doubt it will be so for you. You are capable of so much more."

They looked at one another for a moment. Scott was the first to look away. He took the cutlery from the drainer and began putting it away, spoons first.

"Can I get better?" he asked, softly, more to the silverware drawer than anything else.

"Better?"

"What happened before, in the orphanage."

"What is it you want, Scott? Tell me precisely."

"To… to be able to think about it without flinching, I guess. Not to be afraid of remembering anymore. Not to hear his voice in my head every time I make a mistake. I know it's okay to make mistakes, Dad. But every time I do I feel worthless, even knowing that I'm not."

"It's possible," Charles promised. “It won’t be easy, but—yes, it’s possible.”

"Umm. There's just one more thing…"

* * *

 

The following afternoon, Ororo stood on a stepladder, a ruler in one hand, chalk in the other. Heat bore down on her, but she didn't mind it. No, she liked a sunny day. Snow had been fun. She would still take sunlight any day.

She sighed and tilted her head back, eyes closed, letting the sun shine on her face.

"Ororo?"

A few seconds enjoying the sunshine was one thing. Too long and she started to seem crazy. She knew Charles only asked out of concern, but nonetheless grumbled, "Yeah, yeah," as she returned to work.

There was still construction going on at the mansion. Luckily it was big enough that they could easily be shielded from any human eyes. Of course, normally she would be hanging around the site anyway…

Ororo finished her markings, moved the stepladder, and went to stand by Charles. Now the wall was marked in one-foot increments, each labeled with a chalk number, from one foot off the ground to a shaky seven that was a bit too high for her, really.

Beside Charles was a bucket full of wet sponges.

"Now, I want you to pick up a sponge."

Ororo did.

"Pass it to the wind. Only that sponge, mind."

That was more difficult. Her eyes went milky white as she created a tiny twister. At first it only tugged, picking up the liquid that had pooled in her palm. The sponge began to shake. The wind lifted it… and plopped it into the grass.

Ororo picked up the sponge again.

The second time, she created a strong enough wind to pick it up. The sponge hovered, wobbling, in mid-air.

"It should hit the wall between three and five feet off the ground."

"That's kinda specific, Professor."

"On the contrary, it's a quite broad range."

Ororo was silenced by that for one contemplative moment, then she said, "It's a specific broad range."

The sponge zoomed toward the wall and hit the top of a window, above and to the left of the chalk marks.

Ororo had not been training her powers much the past few weeks and today felt very much unexpected. Whatever made Charles decide she needed the training, she didn't mind. It had been a while since she felt so challenged.

Her eyes narrowed as she picked up another sponge.

By the time she gathered all of them up and dumped the lot back into the bucket, determination was giving way to frustration. A dozen sponges had taken wind-rides to the wall and her chalk lines were nearly intact. They had only been marred where a few drops rolled down from a hit almost two feet too high.

"This isn't fair," she announced, letting the sponges splash into the bucket. Three fell onto the grass. "I can't do this."

"I'm quite certain you can, Ororo. It's going to take practice, that's all," Charles replied. He was an aggravatingly calm man.

"But right now I can't," she retorted. "I just missed twelve times! Why can't we call that enough?"

"Because all twelve missed. You are quite capable of this, I assure you. You need only to focus and keep trying."

With a frustrated sigh, Ororo grabbed a sponge from the bucket and hurled it at the wall. It hit the grass nearby.

"I'm off balance!" she cried, raising her cast as evidence. "I have a busted arm!"

"Ororo, has Alex ever told you about his initial training?"

She pouted a moment before admitting, "No…"

"We set up mannequins in the bunker and told him to blast the one in the middle. I was new to training young mutants at that time and I stood outside the door absolutely certain that despite his doubts, Alex had succeeded. I would step into that room—"

"Step?"

"Yes, I was walking then. And I believed Alex would have achieved it. I actually looked forward to the chagrined look on his cocky little face when he realized what he had achieved."

It was true, but the 'cocky little face' remark had been thrown in to make her laugh. Ororo pressed a hand to her mouth to smother giggles.

"He hadn't, in fact, and had a rather different look of superiority that he had managed to light the room on fire."

Ororo snickered.

"Yes, you've seen the char marks on the floor, haven't you? But while Alex was right on that day and destroyed quite a lot of mannequins before he managed it, he did in time learn to control his ability. You have seen for yourself the mastery he has now and I know you are capable of the same."

She sighed. "Why? Why do I even need to be?"

"Because Alex, in that moment, had access to all of his power. You have access to only a little of yours. What you can do now is extraordinary, but if you want to summon a tornado or tame a blizzard, it's going to take much more work. Greater control is the first step."

Ororo hesitated a moment longer, giving Charles a hard, defiant look. Then she picked up a sponge. The wind began to gather… then it died.

"Professor, why did you have so many mannequins?"

"A story for another time, Ororo."


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

_In their joking about names, Chris repeated three. He always suggested Sam and Matthew for a boy; Alexandria for a girl. As he flies he turns over the names in his head._

_Sam._

_The plane hits an air current and the controls rattle._

_Matthew._

_He isn't sure where he is now, which state he is flying over._

_Sam._

_Then he's not flying over any state but the wide, wide ocean and he focuses on navigation._

_Matthew._

_And he makes it, finally, with his fingers numb and his back sore and his ears… possibly no longer attached… he climbs out of the plane at an airbase called Pearl Harbor and reminds himself it might be an Alexandria._

_He reports in and is advised to take a walk. When he looks around he realizes why. He walks past trees he can't name. He takes his shoes off and wriggles his toes in the hot sand, takes his clothes off and swims out in the refreshing ocean._

_He thought the inverse of Alaska was Katherine. To his surprise, it's Hawaii. He spends a few glorious days there, most of it with the planes, some of it on the beaches._

_Then he flies in that same plane, thinking those same thoughts: Sam, Matthew, Alexandria, Hawaii. (Can you name someone Hawaii? Can you name them Beach or Pacific or Giant Turtle? …probably not.)_

_He reports in, if abruptly—the military expects little small talk. Chris expects to report, be dismissed, and go home._

_Instead his commanding officer asks him, "You rested up, Summers?"_

_Not really._

_"Yes, Sir."_

_"Good. Your wife went into labor—"_

_"But she's not due for another six weeks!" Chris interrupts, briefly no longer a soldier but a wild-eyed young man. He remembers himself: "Sir."_

_"I don't have the details. She's in the hospital."_

_He might as well fly, he gets there so quickly._

_Chris may be late to the party, but the hospital staff know where to direct him. He finds Katherine asleep and can't bring himself to wake her. So he asks to have the baby brought from the nursery and he waits there, holding this impossibly small person, weeping because he has never in his life loved anyone this much._

* * *

 

For three days, Charles barely saw Alex. He wasn't certain he ought to think much of this. After all, he rarely saw Hank, either—Hank spent his time in his lab. Alex had been working and spending time with his father.

It felt deliberate with Alex, though. Hank was absent-minded and got lost in his work; Alex was actively avoiding people. He had stopped showing up to dinner, an otherwise accepted routine for everyone. He wasn't precisely rude—but then, the Summers boys were more prone to a simmering sulk followed by an explosion. Both of them, not that Charles would put it to either.

So he was surprised when Alex stepped into his study.

"You got a minute?"

Charles motioned to the chair opposite. He was making notations on the day's activities. Training with Ororo continued and while her control of the wind continued to be less than perfect, she summoned it easily. Meanwhile Charles realized that Scott's training had been lagging, as had his studies—but it was summer, and with construction on the mansion, Scott was gone all day.

The two questions that remained in the margins were, of course, Doug and Laurie. Charles did not know that Laurie would return, although her mother had been quite supportive of her being here. And Doug, now a high school graduate but unable to control his power… an issue for another time!

"What's on your mind, Alex?"

He dropped himself into the chair, took a deep breath, and like he was ripping teeth from his jaw announced, "The way I behaved at dinner a few days ago was wrong and I apologize."

Charles regarded him for a moment.

Alex shifted uncomfortably. "I was immature," he continued, "and I realize that was… um… inappropriate."

Charles wasn't sure how to address that. He had heard half-apologies from Alex before, but mostly mumbled and obligated. This one, as uncomfortable as it made Alex, seemed genuine.

The silence still made him babble.

"And I'm older and should be setting an example."

"Ah. Your father's put you up to this," Charles realized.

Alex nodded. "He was mad," he admitted.

Well, that was more than Charles had expected from Chris. He had to acknowledge, if only to himself, that what he asked of Alex had been quite wrong. He had been upset with Chris as Scott's father, but forgotten to think of him as Alex's.

That didn't justify Alex's behavior, of course. But then, Alex's bad behavior didn't justify Charles's.

"I accept your apology."

"Uh, thanks. I'm not coming back, though. Whatever's going on with you, with Scott, Chris is my dad."

Charles couldn't argue with that. He realized that, once this was sorted out, he needed to have a talk with Alex about his powers as well. Everything seemed to be under control, but there were risks one simply didn't want to be taking. Losing grip on a power like Alex's… that was quite a risk.

More pressing, "I have a better idea. Why don't you and Chris join the rest of us."

Alex looked puzzled and a touch distrusting. "He's un-banned?"

"He's un-banned," Charles confirmed. "That wasn't an appropriate way for me to approach the situation." It wouldn't have been right to tell Alex, but Chris's behavior since then had been entirely right. As much as Charles wanted to remain angry and keep blaming him for Scott's nightmares, he was believed—reservedly—that Chris had changed.

"Are you ever going to tell me what happened?" Before Charles could answer, Alex said, "Yeah, I kinda figured that. At least stop pretending it's not my business."

Charles spent a few seconds phrasing an explanation about how this absolutely was not Alex's business before realizing he was wrong. Outside of Scott and Chris, the only family Alex acknowledged was his adoptive sister Haley. Something that not only involved but to a degree consumed both of them was very much his business.

Did Alex remember that day, too? He had been two years old when he watched his drunk father beat his brother. Was that old enough to remember or too young to understand?

"It's not my decision." Sensing an objection, Charles held up a hand to prevent it. "It's between Chris and Scott. You have to take it up with them."

Alex didn't like it. Charles saw the wheels turning, the desire to openly object and the recognition that his reasons were basically sound. Then Alex nodded. "Okay," he said. "I'll do that."

* * *

 

"Tell me about the orphanage."

"I—I can't."

"You can."

Scott looked around the room for a few frantic seconds, then shook his head. "What about it?"

"Anything."

Charles had debated the best time to talk about the past and chosen evening. He didn't have many options with Scott, which made Charles realize just how busy that boy kept himself. Running in the morning, working at the library all day, krav maga several times a week… and he had been neglecting training his power, they would have to work more at that, too.

Now Scott sat on his bed, knees hugged to his chest, looking very much like that same little boy he had been. It was only a few years ago, after all.

"Why do we need to talk about this?" he asked. "It's in the past."

"Because it's not in the past, Scott. Is it? You're still having the nightmares. I'm not angry," Charles added almost on reflex. It was a learned response to Scott's reflex: apology. "I think you're still afraid of the orphanage. I think you know I will never send you back there, but if there's anyone more powerful than me, it's Mr. Milbury."

Charles was not stating that as a fact. He phrased it as what he believed to be Scott's fear. Charles would never send him back but he could still be dragged kicking and screaming, couldn't he?

"Isn't that right, Scott?"

Scott raised his head to look at Charles. Charles had seen that expression before. The night they met, in the police station, Milbury arrived and put his hand on Scott's shoulder like he was asserting ownership of the boy. He was, Charles realized.

Scott swallowed and nodded.

"He's always in the shadows," he said. "He… watches. He knows. Everything and all the time. He's this… this twisted, messed up Santa demon."

Santa, Charles thought, meant saint. Saint Demon. What a disturbingly accurate description. Milbury had been a wicked, horrid man, yet had the appearance of a saint who cared for lost children.

Scott shivered and rocked slightly, not quite able to sit still.

"You said that it was the worst—not what he did to me, what he said."

Charles nodded. "I remember that." Had it been a month ago already? He wondered when Ororo's cast could come off. The night he and Scott talked about Milbury, she was at the hospital with Ruth.

"You, um, were wrong, actually. You're not, usually, but you said the worst thing Mr. Milbury did was tell me I was worthless."

"When I said that, I never meant to suggest that what he did physically—"

Scott shook his head. "It wasn't that. It was being nice. When he… one time he told me he was sorry. I sat out of school for weeks with a busted-up face. He was really nice until he got sick of me. He gave me a toy once. A Matchbox car. I was eight."

"Scott…"

None of that sounded like kindness. To Charles, it was all indicative of a diseased mind—Milbury's, although he knew Scott's mind needed to do some healing of its own. At least Scott's mind _could_. What was wrong with Milbury, Charles didn't think it could be fixed.

"I know. But when I try to hate him, all I can think about is how he told me once that I was special. Before he started telling me I was research. And I just get to thinking that he was… that if I had been better… that, um, that was it my fault. That I was bad.

"I know. I'm not bad. It doesn't make sense! He does this, he gets inside your head and I still think it. I don’t want to, but it doesn’t go away. I'm bad. I'm… worthless, I'm pathetic. I couldn't even take care of my baby brother. It never made sense, didn't want Alex there, not in that place. Not… cut."

Scott took a shaky breath and concluded, "You have to protect him. Alex. Promise you'll protect him."

"Scott, Alex is not a little boy anymore."

Scott sniffled and shrugged. "But he's not not a kid, is he?" he reasoned.

That dedication had always been one of the traits Charles found most endearing in Scott. He would do anything to protect his family. While Charles wanted to have some modicum of respect for Alex's ability to make his own choices, he decided there was a time and a place for such things.

"I won't let anything happen to Alex."

Charles stayed until Scott fell asleep.

He went to read to Ororo after this, but she had the covers pulled up over her head and refused to budge.


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

As July marched on and the heat continued, Ororo found herself missing Africa. She missed the dry heat. It was muggy here and sometimes the humidity was so bad it plopped down in heavy raindrops.

"Hey Matty."

By now, she was used to that at least. And she had to admit, for all this business with his biological family, Scott had been a good brother to her. He stood up for her usually—and she had frozen when the school was attacked a few months ago, and he made sure she made it to the shelter.

So when she found him in the kitchen, she grabbed a Coke and joined him at the table.

"Hey Blondie."

"I finished _Dracula_."

"Did you ever like it?"

"I liked being finished," Ororo said.

Scott chuckled. "I fully apologize for the recommendation," he said.

Ororo believed him. As lightly as he offered the apology, he had made her suffer through a really annoying, really boring book. He knew that.

"How are you doing?"

Scott sighed and his shoulders drooped. She couldn't help but notice that she, at least, got to wear dresses. She had a little airflow. His jeans had to be stifling.

"It's really hard, Ororo. With—you know—him."

"You could just tell the truth."

"Not the secret," he said. "Having him here. I wish he would just… leave! He was gone for twenty years. Alex was back on track, everything would be okay, and now… now… I wish he had stayed dead."

She stared. Had she heard correctly? "What?" she spluttered.

"I'm not proud of it," Scott said, "but it's the truth. He never should have come back and having him here is… it sucks."

For a moment more, she watched him. People said eyes were the windows to the soul. Even without Scott's eyes, Ororo saw that he meant it. This was a weight on him. It ached throughout him.

She grabbed the front of his shirt. "What the _hell_!" she shouted.

Ororo swore, but not that word. Usually.

She did not raise her voice.

"Ororo, what—"

She shoved him hard, making him fall out of his chair.

Scott scrambled to his feet, but Ororo was there, ready. She only had the one good arm. Now she used it to swing at Scott's jaw. He avoided by grabbing her arm and spinning her away with her own momentum.

Ororo hit the table. It scraped back a few inches, knocking over a chair and sending a soda bottle to the floor. She bounced toward Scott.

She tried again and again he deflected.

"At least have the balls to fight me, you stupid girl!"

"Stop."

"What is this?" demanded a surprising voice. Usually, it was Ruth who caught them at this sort of thing. Today it was Professor Xavier.

"Nothing," Scott said. He looked from Ororo, still furious, to the chair on the floor and the puddle of Coke. "We're just playing, Professor, nothing serious."

The string of obscenities coming out of Ororo's mouth were her favorites from Arabic and English, what she had picked up in Maa, and even a few of Ruth's Hebrew cusses. A small voice in her head said this was a really bad idea, but she couldn't stop.

Nothing serious? This was _nothing serious_ to him?

Tears sprang to her eyes and it wasn't from the pain in her hand as it connected with his cheek.

"Don't do this."

"At! Least! Fight! Back!"

She shoved him with each word. Scott let her.

"Ororo," Charles said.

By now the rest of the house was here: Alex, Hank, Ruth, and Chris, all waiting for Charles to give a directive.

Ororo went to knee Scott where boys really hurt. She felt him shift, but her knee connected with his thigh hard enough to destabilize him.

She just had enough time to punch him in the gut before an arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her back.

"Why won't you fight back!" Ororo demanded, struggling pointlessly. She knew Ruth held her. That wasn't a hold she could break.

But this time Scott answered. "Because," he said, "you're my sister."

"Your si—" Ororo looked from Scott to Chris.

"Don't—" Charles tried, seeing what she meant.

Ororo wasn't having it.

"He's your son!"

She looked into Chris's eyes as she said it.

Ruth carried her out of the room, Ororo kicking and screaming the whole way—mostly screaming to Chris. "Scott Matthew Summers, he's your son!"

Then Ruth had her down the next hallway and into the classroom there. She slammed the door behind them and shoved Ororo into one of the chairs.

"There will be repercussions," Ruth warned. Then, seeing that Ororo did not understand this word, "Consequences. This is a big thing you have done. Ororo." She switched to Arabic as she asked, "What happened?"

Ororo shrugged.

"Bati…"

She shook her head.

"I know you're hurt."

Again she shook her head. "He didn't fight back."

"No, but you would not have done this if you were not hurt."

"He just… he said some really dumb stuff."

"What did he say?"

"Just dumb stuff."

"Men say dumb stuff all the time, they are men."

Ororo couldn't answer that. She just sat, trying to look angry but increasingly unable to keep her lip from trembling.

Ruth crouched and wrapped her arms around Ororo. Earlier, when she was beating up Scott, Ruth held her to restrain her—and she was effective at this. Of course she was. But this was different. It was comforting. Being held like that made her feel warm, soft, and safe.

Ororo hated her for that.

* * *

 

_"He's your son! Scott Matthew Summers, he's your son!"_

Scott's name had never felt so much like an insult. He couldn't look at Chris, or at Alex, or at Charles. He wasn't sure what to do from here. None of them would forgive him and he didn't know what he had done to make his sister and one of his closest friends betray him.

That hurt more than anything else.

Chris learning the truth… he would bear that.

The Professor wanted him to be honest, anyway. He would probably be proud of Ororo for telling the truth, even if Scott couldn't.

Alex…

But Ororo. She had done some mean things before, said mean things, but this was a new level of hate.

Scott sank down to the floor. He just sat and stared. Everything was crumbling and sure, he had a dozen things to do—to address—to… he just didn't…

Why was everything so damned _complicated?_ Most people just had a mom and a dad. Most people who died stayed gone.

Footsteps approached and stopped just in front of him.

"Why is it qualified, why does everything have to be qualified?" Scott asked. He felt the floor under him, but it was spinning so quickly, why was it spinning like that?

He didn't like heights.

Why was he so high up when he didn't like heights?

"Yeah, well." Alex crouched in front of him. "We got a problem there, because I am your amazing, brilliant, unbearably handsome big brother. A little too quality, you understand."

Scott sniffed and tried to smile. He wasn't exactly crying, but that was mostly from the pain. He learned early on not to cry about pain.

Alex turned to their dad, still standing in the doorway. "Give us some time," he said. Then, to Scott, "Dude, you just got neutered by a 12-year-old girl."

Scott shoved him. "She's fourteen and she missed."

"Didn't miss your face," Alex retorted.

He went to straighten up the chairs, then returned and offered his hand. "C'mon, get up. First thing's first, you need to put some ice on that shiner 'fore it swells up and puts you off-balance." He helped Scott to his feet, guided him to a chair, and handed him a bag of peas from the freezer.

"Alex."

Scott didn't say that. Chris did, from the doorway.

Alex glanced between his father and his brother. "Do you want him here?" he asked Scott.

"He can stay."

"You sure?"

Scott thought for a moment. "Mom?"

"Think she's with Ororo right now, man."

"Can you…?"

Alex leaned over and hugged Scott.

"I didn't just do that and if you tell anyone otherwise, I will break your nose."

Scott sniffed and wiped his eyes on his sleeve—which, for him, meant squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing at his eyelids. "Alex, I'm really sorry." Then he looked to Chris, back to Alex, and asked, "Can we have a minute, please?"

"Me and you or you and Dad?"

"Me and him."

"Yeah, of course. Keep holding this," Alex added, momentarily pressing the peas against Scott's face.

Alex left and Chris took his seat. Although Scott had asked for this, he did not know what to say now that he had a moment with his father. All this time, he tried to hide who he was. He never considered what he would do when the truth came out, instead hoping it never would.

Now he tried to think of a way to say, _please don't leave. You don't have to speak to me, just don't go, Alex needs you._ He knew his father hated him, but he had never needed to acknowledge it out loud before. Tears pricked at his eyes.

"I knew," Chris said, breaking a too-long silence.

"You did?"

Chris nodded. "For a while now, but I promised to say nothing to you. Before I knew I asked Charles to find you. I agreed to leave you alone if you were with a loving family. I didn't realize at the time he meant himself."

Scott wasn't sure Ororo loved him lately. She was pretty mad, actually—he would need to make it up to her somehow. It was true, though. He had a mom and a dad who loved him; he didn't care that they weren't his biological parents.

"You know about Sean?" he asked.

"I know he was a friend of yours who died."

"Friend of Alex's, really," Scott replied. "Alex was there with him when he died. He took it hard—he's only just coming back. And he's so much better with you here. If you leave, he—I'm not sure he could bear it."

Chris sighed softly. "I don't want to abandon you again—"

"Alex," Scott interrupted.

"I don't want to abandon either of you."

"Alex needs you. You don't have to talk to me, you don't have to have anything to do with me."

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Scott was just hoping Chris would understand, while Chris was trying to work through what Scott was actually saying.

"You think I don't want you."

"I know you don't want me."

"Matthew—Scott—you're my son. I love you."

"You love me? Where were you? We were here, your sons, and you left us without knowing who was raising us, if we were cold or hungry at night. You abandoned us for twenty years and you never would've come back if your ship hadn't been damaged. Alex was only a baby! He couldn't take care of himself and I wasn't strong enough to protect him. You didn't come back. You didn't even try. You moved on and you forgot about us—that's not something you do to people you love. You do that to someone you hate. And Alex… Alex was just a baby, so…"

Scott started his speech looking at his father, defiant, but by the end he was staring at the table. Loathing is a heavy thing and despite what he thought, Scott was still in many ways a child. It was too much to know.

Had he looked up, he might have seen the stricken look on Chris's face. "Scott…" He reached out, but Scott flinched back. "Scott—but you weren't cold and hungry. You have opportunities here that—"

Scott's head snapped up. He glared at Chris. Even without seeing his eyes, Chris felt that glare.

"Is that what you think makes someone a good parent? Money?"

"Of course not."

"Alex was adopted into a family that didn't love him. Not really. He needed his dad. He grew up without a father and that's my fault, but you could've come back for him."

Glaring all that blame at Chris, Scott concluded:

"It's your fault, too."


	30. Chapter Thirty

A good day for Charles ended with Ruth in his bed. She was an invaluable companion—physically, yes, too, but emotionally. They would talk about the day's major events, discuss courses of action, talk about the school and the kids… he supposed that was what parents were supposed to do.

It was only evening, but the day felt wrapped up. It was already too full of big events.

Charles sat in his study, Ruth on the opposite side of the desk. Neither of them, he thought, had any idea what to do about this.

"Is Ororo all right?"

"She is upset about something, mostly angry."

Charles nodded. He didn't worry as much about Ororo as he did about Scott and that was precisely the reason. Ororo got angry with the world around her. Scott always found a reason to be angry with himself. She kept herself safe and he kept himself in control.

"I'm trying to be open-minded now but I'm blaming her. I shouldn't, but I am," he said.

For Charles, believing that Scott could have deserved that was difficult. He loved Ororo like a sister, but he could make some boneheaded moves sometimes. He might have earned a punch or two, something Ruth insisted was a natural way for young people to address disputes—Charles was starting to come around to her way of thinking—but revealing his identity to Chris was another matter entirely.

"At least you know," Ruth reasoned. "And what are we going to do? Ororo will not tell us what happened, she only says that Scott said 'dumb stuff'. This is not what we must discuss."

"It isn't?"

"No, this does not matter, Ororo is grounded for a while and this is an end of it."

"Well, that's a very… concise interpretation," Charles said. He supposed he was rather inclined to agree. While generally he preferred to at least try to listen to the children's explanations, this time there needed to be consequences.

"How well do you trust Chris?" Ruth asked.

Charles sighed. That was more challenging. Chris had once more joined them for dinner the previous evening and Alex's always ever so delightful sense of humor aside, it had gone well. Forgiving him for what happened all those years ago was hard, but Charles saw that Chris was a different person… and that was nothing compared to what Milbury did. There was a difference between a man who made a criminally horrible mistake and a man who simply didn't care.

"I supposed," Charles reasoned, "I trust him as long as I am nearby to supervise. Or you, or Hank."

"Or Alex."

"Alex is too conflicted."

"I think he is not."

"Ruth."

"Charles," she mimicked.

He responded with a look: _not funny._

"I think, even though we will both hate it, that we must let Chris and Scott work this out for themselves."

Charles shook his head. "I should be there for Scott. I promised, I said I wouldn't leave him."

"This is not about leaving," Ruth replied, surprised. "This is about two people who are not you."

"Is it really so easy for you?"

"Easy?" she gasped, and followed with a string of what he believed was every Hebrew obscenity and a few new ones she had made up. "Of course it is not easy, but that does not mean we do not do it! And if—"

A knock at the door interrupted her. Ruth glanced at Charles.

He didn't know who it was and really this was a poor time. Nonetheless, Charles called, "Come in."

He left his telepathy quiet but guessed Hank. Who else but Hank, with his gloriously awful timing, would come to Charles's study at a time like this?

"Scott!"

The bruise under his left eye made Charles wince. And that was only the portion showing around his glasses! Still, he had to admit, for such a little girl Ororo had quite a powerful punch.

Not so little anymore, either.

"What can I do for you?"

"If I, um, were to ask for something," Scott began hesitantly. His voice was rough and soft, throat sore from crying. "I mean, considering," and he indicated the bruise, "I'd probably get what I asked for, right?"

Charles glanced at Ruth, who looked equally baffled. What did Scott want?

"Depending on what you asked," Charles acknowledged. He remembered Hank pointing out that he never refused Scott anything, that the last time he tried was with Artie and look how that turned out—first she was only to stay temporarily, and then just in the garage, until she spent a year sleeping at the foot of Scott's bed.

Only able to guess what Scott would want, Charles assumed the answer was yes. It _was_ difficult to say no to him. Charles had finally decided to just give him pocket money and let him decide for himself, and every so often Scott would spend a week carrying a new book everywhere like a toddler with a blanket. Sensible things—like decent clothes—had to be forced.

Scott took a deep breath. "Ororo doesn't get grounded for this."

Well, that was a surprise.

"Right. I'm afraid that's—no, Scott."

"I am hurt," he pointed out, a pathetic attempt to play for sympathy—both because Scott was no good at it, and because that was the point. He took a breath and tried to explain, "I'm the one who got hurt in all this and Ororo… I can talk to her and make it right. That'll be hard to do if you punish her, even if she does sort of deserve it. You told me once that I could be a leader. Let me lead. Please, I know I can handle this one."

Charles would dispute the 'sort of' in that statement. Punching someone repeatedly and shouting out their admittedly ill-kept secrets rather justified loss of privileges. But then, he had also told Scott more than once that he had the potential to lead. That was coming back to bite him.

He sighed. "All right," he ceded, "we'll split the difference."

Some thoughts were simply too loud to ignore. Scott's conclusion was one such thought: that he had just gotten himself grounded instead.

"Ororo isn't grounded or otherwise in trouble so long as she stays on her best behavior for the next week. Including reading."

Scott smiled. "Thank you."

"She is to agree to this!"

"Of course."

When he had gone, Charles turned to Ruth. "Right or wrong?"

She smiled. "Yes."

Still, it was a little disorienting. The first time Charles grounded Scott, he hadn't been sure Scott would obey. Scott at that time had been utterly submissive—he was eager to please now, he had been desperate to please then. Surely, Charles had thought, even Scott would see through this feeble attempt at authority.

He hadn't, though. And somehow they all accepted that Charles had the authority to ground someone, and that was simply accepted.

And he thought being called 'Professor' made him feel old!

* * *

 

Ororo sat on the stairs, watching the world turn dusky and scowling like a prisoner awaiting execution. Her fingers played on the cast—it was starting to feel unnecessary now. There hadn't been any pain earlier while she was beating up Scott.

She was a mix of pleased with herself and ashamed for that. She didn't want to hurt him. Okay, so sometimes he could be a stupid, insensitive jerk-brat who couldn't see past his own stupid sulking, but he was still basically her friend except maybe not just now.

But she didn't want to hurt him.

She was just so mad!

She sighed like she could exhale hard enough and blow away the whole stupid world. (The non-stupid world could stay.) Unfortunately even though her arm felt better, the cast remained annoying itchy. She heard footsteps approaching, but she kept scowling at the lawn, trying to scratch under the cast.

"So," Scott said.

"So," Ororo mimicked.

"Okay."

"Okay."

"How long are you planning to keep this up?"

"How long are you planning to keep this up?"

"I'm a big stupid butthead."

Ororo considered a moment, then decided she wasn't going to repeat that.

"Nice try, but I've been a big brother a lot longer than you've been a little sister."

She huffed. He was still a jerk. "They sent you to yell at me?"

"I'm not going to yell. Hey—do I yell?" Scott asked.

Ororo thought that he did, sometimes, but mostly at Alex, who mostly had it coming. He had never yelled at her. All the same, she knew what she said earlier crossed a line.

"Someone's going to yell," she pointed out. She was in trouble. Accepted.

"We're going to talk."

"Yell."

"Tal—we're not doing this. Okay… about what happened earlier," Scott began, "apologies are in order and—"

"I'm not sorry," Ororo snapped, even though she was a little bit. She was angry, but she was sorry for punching him and sorrier for what she had said. Then, for emphasis: "You big stupid butthead!"

"No," he said, "I'm sorry. I was selfish and I didn't think about what this must be like for you. For the past month, I haven't, and… and that's not okay. Not everyone gets to have what I have. Not everyone's dad comes back."

Ororo shrugged. He was right, but she didn't know what to say about it. Yes, her dad would never come back. He died, and her mom died, and she knew it was true. Scott had watched an airplane fly away. Ororo…

She hugged her knees.

Scott wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"Have you talked to him yet?" she asked.

"Not—not really."

"You know when you were doing your big apology speech, you were trying to sound like Charles."

"Did it work?"

Ororo shrugged, but she had known what he was trying to do. "So you're not mad at me?" she asked.

Scott thought about it—not a good sign. "That was a really mean thing to do. Maybe you wanted me to realize how insensitive my behavior was, but it was still mean. But… you're important to me."

"I think you only apologized to me 'cause you're stuck with me. You don't have a back-up sister."

"Whereas I do have a back-up dad?"

"Exactly. So you can be a kitten about this—"

"Pussy," Scott corrected.

"—and try to mimic back-up Dad—"

"Whoa, whoa," he cut in, "Chris is back-up dad. If he's on the dad scale, he's back-up dad."

Ororo scowled at him. When Scott didn't back down, Ororo turned away. "Fine," she grumbled, "Chris can be your back-up dad."

Scott grinned. "Thank you for your permission. Are we okay?"

"No, stupid, I'm fantastic and you're a loser."

He laughed. "You sound exactly like Alex sometimes."

"Well _you_ sound exactly like Professor Xavier."

"Thank you."

"That was supposed to be an insult!" she objected, her voice rising to a shriek, but she was laughing, too. Grudgingly, she was laughing. "You're old!"

"He's not old."

"He is so. He's thirty or something. Thirty's old. Thirty's _ancient_. And speaking of old, are you ever going to pick a birthday?"

For a while, Ororo had bugged Scott about deciding on a birthday for himself. Then Ruth realized she was doing it for the cake and told her she needed to stop. Apparently she had decided now was a good time to start up again.

"Fantastic and stupid average to okay," he said.

"Words can't _average_."

"Can't they?"

"No."

"Because I thought I was the one who understood how words work and you understood math."

"Average is math, that's a math word."

"A math _word_ …"

Unable to think of a retort, Ororo decided she'd had enough of words and hit him with her cast and her mostly-healed arm.

Scott shoved her.

She hit him again.

He pinned her down and tickled her until her face went red.

"Beg for mercy."

"No!"

"Beg for mercy!"

"Never! Never never nev—aah—hehehe—mer—ahaha—mercy! Mercy!"

Scott sat back, letting Ororo up. For a few seconds she stayed on the ground, giggling progressively less, then catching her breath.

"Jerk," she gasped. "Bully."

Being quite a good sport about this, Scott did not show the growing bruise on his belly or point to the one on his face. He just reminded her, "I told you I was a good big brother."

Ororo sat up. She ran a hand over her head, though her hair was a lost cause and she knew it.

"We're okay?" he asked, offering his hand.

"We're okay." She had not actually apologized and felt a growing sorry bubbling inside her. For now, Ororo and Scott were close enough to okay.

They shook on it.

"But, speaking as someone who's never going to have this chance, you need to talk to your back-up dad."

Scott sighed, his head dipping down in acknowledgment. "You're right," he said. "I don't know what to say to him, but you're right."


	31. Chaper Thirty-One

Hank didn't seem to speak to anyone anymore, but, by his standards, he was doing quite well. His appearance needed to be hidden during the day with the construction crew here so it was simply easier to sleep, set an alarm just before dinnertime, and spend the nights working.

Construction was completed on Cerebro's new home.

Once the outward construction was complete, Hank began amending the concrete sphere. The panels he had designed helped both with the radio waves' amplification and with the lighting. Much more productive than the harsh concrete and bare bulbs!

Of course that only set the stage for Cerebro itself. Never had Hank appreciated his gifts more than when he was crawling across those curved walls, threading them with wires.

And he did this all at night. It made no difference in the echoing chasm. Hank set another alarm clock to tell him when seven o'clock a.m. rolled around, giving himself ample time to clear out. Construction continued on the bunker.

Today he did not need an alarm. He dropped to the floor and looked around, an expression of absolute pride on his face. Not that you would know, not unless you were Hank, but it was _finished_.

He hurled himself up the stairs like a ball and bounced from wall to wall, easily the most enjoyable way to get around the mansion. He checked the study first and found it empty.

"Charles!"

He was in his bedroom, the next obvious place to look, and Hank was at first too excited to think about anything else:

"It's finished!" he announced.

This was the first time Hank really talked to anyone in about a week. Even when he sat at the table with the rest of them, no one talked to him anymore, realizing he was wrapped up in his own thoughts and projects and equations. Being very, very clever was a lonely endeavor.

"Cerebro—it's finished—it's been moved to the basement and the wiring is—"

Hank abruptly cut himself off.

It was a challenge, really, paying attention to trivialities. The world went on around him and Hank had just built the ability to amplify the most powerful brain on the planet (which, stingingly enough, was not in his head but someone else's but proximity was a factor)!

Charles was giving him a less than appreciative sideways look. It was quite literally a sideways look: Charles was still in bed.

"What time is it?" Hank realized.

Charles fumbled for his alarm clock and squinted at the numbers. "Three thirty."

"Oh."

"Indeed."

Hank noticed his surroundings, but thought little about them. Now he grasped the implications of the second form in the bed. Ruth was asleep, but nonetheless.

"Ah."

"Good morning, Hank."

That ostensibly polite phrase was used, in this context, to convey something quite different. Busting into someone else's bedroom wasn't exactly polite now was it?

Looking away, Hank explained more calmly, "I finished Cerebro."

"Yes, so I gathered."

"It's ready to be used."

"Yes."

He understood the rebuke, but was a bit incredulous nonetheless: "You really don't want to try it out?"

Charles gave Hank the sort of withering look he used to keep the kids quiet—well, to keep Scott quiet, Ororo was less susceptible to such things.

Then he admitted, "I want to try it."

"I knew you would."

Hank waited about three seconds, which was long enough to feel impatient.

"Hank."

"Yes."

"I'm not going like this."

"Wha—oh!"

Ruth began to laugh so hard the bed shook.

"I knew you were awake," Charles grumbled at her.

Ruth just kept laughing. While he waited outside, Hank heard her continue to snicker.

When Charles emerged from the bedroom, Hank concluded that even he was excited about Cerebro. Otherwise he would have taken the time for more than pajamas and a dressing gown.

They were halfway to Cerebro before Hank scraped up the courage to say, "I'm, uh, sorry for… not knocking."

Charles chuckled.

Not knocking really had been the least of it, hadn't it? Bursting into someone's bedroom at three-thirty in the morning wouldn't really have been improved that significantly by knocking.

"That's all right, Hank." A few moments later he observed, "We don't talk much anymore."

"Did we ever?"

Hank asked it innocently, but he had a point. There had been a brief period where he was Charles's chief confidante.

After the first group, after Erik, Hank was the one who stayed because he had nowhere else to go, but Charles wasn't keen on chatting with anyone. Hank had cautiously suggested Charles pick himself up and Charles had responded so vehemently opposed that after the second time, Hank dropped the idea entirely.

It changed after Scott arrived, but even then, Hank hadn't thrown himself into the idea of the school. He liked the idea—he just didn't like the idea of people seeing him. (He never told Charles that having Hank and Laurie work together was outright cruel. It was supposed to help Laurie adjust, see that Hank wasn't a monster, but his appearance always unsettled her.)

So Ruth was and had been Charles's second. She was more involved with the school and the students, and she had no trouble telling Charles when he was being an idiot. She was all but his wife at this point.

Hank didn't mind his limbo-esque state, but he wouldn't pretend it was otherwise.

"Well. Perhaps we should have," Charles replied. "You're my friend. You know that, don't you?"

Hank fiddled with his glasses. "That's an… odd thing to say."

"But you do know."

"Well, I am a genius."

"An insufferable genius."

"Still a genius."

Either Charles had no retort or accepted that they were now at the open door to Cerebro.

"It's keyed to my handprint," Hank said, "but I've thought that we might… well… we could key it to retinal scans, that's… doable, but…"

"Yes, that should be sufficient, I think," Charles replied.

Hank didn't state outright what he meant. They both knew. The problem with any sort of physical proof was that it meant Raven could access Cerebro—but what would Raven do with it? She wasn't psychic. Hank didn't want to give her that opportunity, but he knew Charles still loved her.

Besides, as they stepped (and rolled, respectively) into Cerebro, he stopped thinking about that. Even the air felt different in here, the sound altered by the shape of the room, making it that much more impressive.

"Hank… this is amazing."

Hank was pleased to hear it. Nonetheless: "Wait until you try it."

Charles nodded. He approached the headpiece slowly and, from the way he lifted it, seemed to be discovering it for the first time. He set it on his head, leaving his uncombed hair to splash out in every direction, then took a deep breath.

He set the helmet on his head, reached for his telepathy…

The lights went out.

"Hank?"

A soft glow started.

"That's the emergency lighting," Hank observed.

"So it is."

"I think I overestimated the power supply."

"It would appear so. Still, for a first try, it's phenomenal."

That didn't make him feel better.

"I'll check the generator," Hank said, already planning how he would improve Cerebro's power supply.

* * *

 

Others in the house waited until a much more reasonable hour to wake up. When Alex rolled out of bed at 10:30, the sun was up and bright. He wandered through the kitchen, decided he didn't have the patience for toast, and grabbed a piece of bread to eat as he headed to the ship on the front lawn.

Ororo was already there, sitting on the wing, her legs dangling over the side.

"Hey gnat," Alex said, grabbing a bare foot and tugging.

"You're not funny," she informed him, yanking her foot back.

"That's hurtful."

"You're not."

"I'm telling Charles you said that."

Ororo stuck out her tongue.

Alex laughed and headed into the ship. "Morning, Dad."

Chris was on his back, his head under the dashboard. Well, Alex thought of it as the dashboard, it was where the steering was and the spaceship version of an ignition switch.

"Rosary pliers."

Alex was used to this. He located the pliers and set them in his father's outstretched hand.

"Are you okay?"

"I think if I can just… get… this one… aha! Golden once this is patched up."

"Yeah—that's great, Dad," Alex said. His heart wasn't in it. He had a hard time being thrilled about the idea of Chris being ready to go. Besides, "That's not what I meant."

"Wouldn't think a puddle-jumper would be this difficult to maintain," Chris replied. "Been a mechanic since before I was your age, alien mechanic for more cycles than I can count. This… best I can do is solder her up and hope she holds."

"Huh."

"The Starjammer—my ship—she's got her eccentricities, personality if you like, but she's a logical creature. Well-designed."

"I'm not staying here if you do this."

Chris paused. Alex heard him tinkering around with the dash, then he inched out until he could sit up.

"If I do what?" he asked.

"This!" Alex said, thinking it should be obvious. "Shutting me out. I was there yesterday. Remember?"

Chris considered that a moment, pushed his hair out of his eyes, and said, "I didn't think you liked being in the middle of it."

"I don't, but I don't like being outside of everything, either."

Alex didn't want there to be a middle at all, but since there was one, he accepted being in it. He didn't know what was going on between Chris and Scott. He knew Scott was scared, though, and when it came right down to it he didn't care why.

But he had offered to stay with Scott yesterday because it made him feel safer. If he had to do that, if he was in a position to protect his brother from their dad, he was damn sure not going to be shut out.

After a pause, Chris asked, "What happened to that boy?"

"I don't know."

He didn't, not in detail, but Alex had seen the scars. Some of them, anyway. He knew more than he let on.

"Scott was such a sweet child."

"Oh, okay, puberty happened," Alex joked. It wasn't funny, but he needed something to say.

"You were both monsters at first," Chris said. "When your mother was pregnant with you, she could barely get out of bed. We thought you would be sickly. Looking back, I think you were bored. You took your sweet time getting out of there—"

"Dad!"

"I meant her womb, son."

Alex was still squirming from the misunderstanding. That wasn't a great improvement, anyway.

"And Scott cried nonstop for three months. I don't think I could have managed it without her."

"That's how babies work, Dad, you need a woman to—"

"All right, Alex, you've made your point."

"Are you sure? I can keep going."

"Please don't."

"So, Scott was a crybaby, huh?"

Chris sighed. "That's… not how I meant it, but yes, I supposed. He was an angel after that. Affectionate, bright… preferred your mother, though. Yes," he preempted Alex's smart-aleck comment, "he was a mama's boy. I think she proved herself those first three months. He didn't dislike me, though, not like this.

"Anyway, your mom had Scott and I had you. You were a fun kid. Right from the start, you were fun. Threw yourself into everything. You were always an easy kid because you just wanted to have fun. I made mistakes with you, but I made more with Scott. Whatever happens, I'm always your dad."

Alex nodded, not totally understanding. Why was Chris even mentioning this? He had asked if Chris was okay… and Alex realized that this was Chris's way of answering. He wasn't sure.

"Maybe I could've been a better one."

"Dad, it's not your fault." Alex's response was automatic.

Chris shook his head. "It's okay, Alex. Part of being a man is learning to live with regret."


	32. Chapter Thirty-Two

_Chris lies in bed and listens to footsteps and whimpers._

_He has to admit there are advantages to being an officer. Sure he's seen 18-year-olds glowering like they want to punch his lights out, sure he knows they do, but he can support his wife and child, and lives in a little house with his family rather than the barracks. He wouldn't trade anything for that._

_Usually._

_Except on nights like this._

_He rolls over and pulls the pillow over his head._

_Katherine pads up and down the hallway. She sings a song, the melody just reaching him, something he has heard before in church. He can't place it. He's too tired._

_"For God's sake!"_

_The shushing noises increase in intensity. Her footsteps grow more distant. She's in the living room now, pacing, still singing. The baby still crying._

_He does, often. It's the fourth night in a row._

_Chris squeezes his eyes shut, which doesn't help. Grits his teeth, which doesn't help. Hates his son in those horrible moments, which fills him with shame but it's no use because shame can't put him to sleep._

_Nights like this he lies alone in the cold bed with nothing but that truth: he does not love his son. And just as he begins to drift off, the baby starts to scream._

_"Dammit, Katherine!"_

_Chris throws off the covers. Barely registers going from the bedroom to the living room, barely registers the words coming out of his mouth: "Can't you shut him up?"_

_She doesn't have to answer. No, she can't. She's exhausted. All she can do is look at him and let her face say the million words her mouth can’t. Her eyes are a rainbow of ache, gray-smudged and red-rimmed. It's not only the baby who's crying._

_"I, uh… I'll just go back to bed."_

* * *

 

"Can I go to the library?"

"You want to go to the library?"

"I could want to go to the library."

Charles responded to this with a look: _you know and I know that's not the case._

Ororo sighed and amended, "Can I go to the library and walk home with Scott, please."

Charles relented, understanding now. He asked anyway, "Have you done your reading?"

Her expression of utter distaste was answer enough. Scott had warned her that _Little Women_ might not be of interest, but he also suggested _Dracula_ , so she had picked up _Little Women_ to spite him.

To his defense, Scott had been right about _Little Women_. Ororo did not care for it.

Nevertheless she had done her reading, albeit with several pauses to check the clock. That half-hour she spent reading was the longest of her day. She was sure that, if she just read enough, this one summer would last until the turned eighteen. Maybe until Scott turned eighteen.

"Then you may go."

"Thanks!"

The walk to the library was uneventful, a leisurely stroll down a sleepy country lane. It reminded her of the desert—not because it was anything like the desert, because it was different.

She had not liked the desert, but she felt she belonged in it. It had been harsh and dry, and perhaps her feeling of belonging was due to her childhood in Cairo or her growing powers. But if it was her powers, shouldn't she feel even better here, with more control?

Whatever it was, she preferred the desert to the lane but she preferred the lane to town. She preferred nature to people.

To most people.

She hopped up the library steps. There was no one at the desk, so she slipped soundlessly to the back, not making a single sound. In Cairo she had been a master thief, better at ten than most adults at adult-age. (Twenty had seen downright archaic back then.)

With nothing here she would steal, she stole herself, slipping secret and silent until she spotted her prey.

Scott had a rickety-looking wooden cart beside him. It had a few books on it. Ororo watched as he picked up a book, checked the sticker on the side, scanned the shelf, and returned the book. Then he did the same thing. And again.

She watched him until her calves started cramping from sheer boredom, then she crept up almost next to him and said, "Boo."

"Hi, Ororo."

"You didn't jump," she pouted at him. He was supposed to be scared.

"'Cause I knew you were there."

How dare he. How dare he suggest she was anything but the picture of stealth? It was an affront to her pride and not to be endured.

With fitting eloquence, Ororo objected, "Did not!"

Scott chuckled. "Okay, then 'cause I have nerves of steel."

"I can scare guys who have nerves of steel."

"Then I have nerves of adamantium."

"Adawhatnow?"

"You know. Adamantium. Hank was talking about it the other day, it's an alloy only so far theorized to be replicable by human endeavors—"

"Okay, okay! Stop… being a teacher."

Scott slipped the last book onto its shelf and promised, "I'm done being a teacher. You ready to head home?"

"I only came here to—" Ororo began, then cut herself off. She only came out to head home. She had known that, but saying it out loud made it that much more real that the only time she went out was so she could go back home. "Yes," she amended.

Scott pushed the cart back to the circulation desk, where Mae was tidying up.

"Everything's shelved, Mae. We're running out of space on the 930s with all those new books."

"Good," she said. "There's no such thing as too many books. Hello, Ororo. How are you enjoying _Kon-Tiki_?"

"It's…" Ororo glanced at Scott. There was still a competitive element, that she didn't want to admit to really enjoying any book whatsoever because she liked _math_ thank-you-very-much and not reading. All the same, he had been having such a hard time lately.

Besides, Mae had remembered the book. Ororo had to admit, "Probably my favorite book I've ever read. I like how he talks about all the preparations and everything; they just got to the pineapple bit."

Mae smiled at her. "I liked that line, too."

"What if I can't finish it before it's due back?"

"Scott will renew it. Won't you?" she added, turning to Scott.

He looked briefly surprised to be drawn into the conversation, then nodded. "Yes, of course I will. Is there anything else I can do today?"

"That's everything done. Thank you."

Scott shrugged and dipped his head, mumbling something like 'you're welcome'.

He paused outside to unlock his bike chain. As he did, three boys sauntered over. They looked to be around his age, maybe a year or two older. One of them was trying to grow a mustache and failing.

Scott ignored them, but Ororo glanced over. This was news to her.

"Hey, freakazoid." The leader was not the mustache-failure. He was the one with chicken pox scars on his face, the sort of boy you looked at and just knew was making up for how much people teased him.

Scott didn't reply. He unlocked his bicycle and stowed the chain steadily, and because he didn't respond, the boy kept pestering him.

"Hey, you eat any bugs today? How many bugs? Give me a number and I'll leave you alone for a week. Come on," he called as Scott started to walk away, "don't be such a sore sport!"

Ororo walked with Scott, observing the whole thing with interest.

"They upset you," she observed.

Scott shrugged. "They don't matter."

"You could take 'em. All you have to do is show them just one time that you're stronger."

He shook his head.

Ororo didn't understand that. She didn't understand why Scott let those boys bother him, which they had clearly been doing for a while, when he was smarter, stronger, and easily the second-best krav maga user in this county. Ruth was the best, but Ororo had seen Scott throw Hank. With his strength and reflexes, that wasn't nothing!

More than that… "You have to stand up for yourself some time, Scott. You shouldn't let everyone tease you."

"You tease me."

"I'm allowed to."

"Okay, Princess. Wait here."

Scott left his bicycle with Ororo and headed into the gas station. He returned a minute later with a cellophane package, which he tore open with his teeth. He handed her a yellowish spongy sort of thing.

"What's this?"

"A Twinkie."

She held it between two fingers. It was a bit sticky. The top looked more appetizing than the bottom, giving it a distinctly assembled look.

"There's cream on the inside," Scott said.

Ororo raised an eyebrow. "So it's basically sausage shaped with cream in it? Enjoy your penis cake."

She had intentionally waited until he was mid-bite to say this. Scott's expression registered the distaste at her comment, but he chewed and swallowed anyway.

"See what I mean about you teasing me?"

She took an intentionally feral bite of Twinkie. It plunked sugar onto her tongue and around her mouth, cloying enough that she wanted a drink of water. It wasn't bad, precisely, but too much.

"It's not my favorite," she said.

"Plenty more junk food to try."

"Maybe I just don't like junk food."

"Everyone likes junk food. We just need to find you the right one."

"Why? Why can't you just like good food?"

"Junk food is safer."

She didn't understand, but decided that was probably a Scott thing.

They finished their Twinkies in silence. Scott folded the wrapper and slipped it into his pocket. It was a noisy act, by necessity.

"Are you going to keep sulking today?" she asked.

"I'm not sulking."

"Yes, you are. You stay in your room all the time." He didn't get grounded for missing dinner, she noted, although this seemed a less than tactful time to point that out. "You haven't talk to your back-up dad," she added, more softly.

Scott nodded.

"You promised me."

"I know, but—"

"You owe me."

"No, I don't."

"Yeah, I know."

If anything, she owed him. He had come with her into the wine cave, and he didn't tell for a lot of things that would get her in trouble—and when even Ororo knew she deserved to be in trouble, Scott got her out of it.

When they reached the gate, Scott paused to pick up the mail. He looked through the letters quickly.

"Who would send you mail?" she wondered.

It was not meant as a mean question. Everyone Scott had any interest in knowing was right here in the mansion. She knew Hank sent away for things sometimes, mostly some science piece or another that he tried to explain but was past college-level and she didn't understand.

He shrugged.

"I'll take the mail," Ororo offered.

Scott handed it over, which only confirmed her suspicions that he was waiting for a letter.

"Do you have a secret girlfriend?"

"Secret girlfriend?" he repeated, amused.

"You're out every day. How would any of us know what you're up to?"

He shook his head. "I go to the library. No secret girlfriend."

"And that morning you went out and nobody knew where…"

"That's not true, Hank knew."

"You could have a secret girlfriend. You could just have a regular girlfriend. Maybe you'll find a redhead, then she would look normal to you!"

Scott laughed at that one. "Everyone's a redhead to me, remember?" He was used to the way the world looked with his glasses, but they were a fact he could never forget. His eyes were permanently destructive; that was something he couldn't afford to ignore for even a second.

"Exactly. That's why you need to date a redhead, so you can see her the way she is."

"But I'd still—never mind," he said, shaking his head. "You're right. I should date a redhead."

She knew that tone. He was humoring her. Well, she was still right! (Okay, she was being silly and stubborn and even she knew it, but that was beside the point.)

By now they were almost to the ship. Scott reacted to the shift in Ororo's stance, but he wasn't quick enough to stop her calling out, "Hey, Mr. Summers!"

After a moment, Chris poked his head of out his ship. Ororo didn't think he was always working in there, but she didn't go asking what he did in his free time. He waved to her.

"Scott wants to talk to you," she announced. "I can take this!" in reference to the bicycle. Scott was too surprised to hold onto the handles, even as she balanced it awkwardly with one arm. Most things Ororo had adjusted to, but she rarely pushed Scott's bike. She hadn’t needed to adjust.

He did not look like he wanted to talk to Chris. He looked defeated, eyes on the ground, shoulders hunched.

Ororo took the bike and hurried back to the mansion.


	33. Chapter Thirty-Three

Chris Summers knew he had never been a perfect parent. He had lost his temper with the boys sometimes, raised his voice… and, yes, what he did to Scott. He hadn't spent much time with them. In the 1940s, a man worried about other things—and Chris had. His family was housed, fed, and clothed. And the boys were so young, they were really Katherine's domain.

He had been excited to be a daddy. He thought once the boys were old enough for school, he would have more to do with them. But things came up. Life interfered. Then…

But he loved his sons. He had the better part of five years with Scott and, failings aside, loved him.

The first time he looked at that tiny, squishy-faced half-octopus thing that had slid out of his wife, it was absolute love. He came to appreciate tiny footsteps waking him up on his day off, remembered swinging that tiny body into bed for a cuddle and—if he was lucky—a couple more hours of sleep.

Scott had been an anxious child, but loving. And, yes, he had favored his mother, but he still loved his dad. He used to love his dad.

That was not the child Chris looked at now.

He stood with his head down, unable to even look at Chris. There was no hate in him, no fight, no overwhelming emotion even. He just looked beaten.

Chris reached out to him. He saw that Scott was uncomfortable. To Chris, at least in part, Scott was still the toddler who spent thunderstorms clinging to his hand. So he reached out, because it had been effective at one time, because Katherine had always pushed him to…

Scott flinched his head lower and his shoulders up.

Chris dropped his hand. "Go," he said. "Go inside, Scott. I'll be here when you're ready to talk."

Scott looked toward the mansion and Chris followed his gaze. Ororo had just reached the door; she leaned his bike against the wall and disappeared inside.

Scott shook his head. "Let's get it over with."

Every second around this boy broke his heart a little more. Chris knew there was more to Scott's history, something both Alex and Charles alluded to but never stated. He didn't know what it was, but it couldn't all be his fault. Could it?

Scott didn't want to be around him. Chris was torn. He still wanted to hug the boy and make this go away, and he wanted to excuse Scott from this sense of obligation that caused him such trouble. Seeing no way to do either, he stepped back toward the ship.

"Would you like to come in?"

Scott jammed his hands in his pockets, ducked his head down to his shoulders, and slipped through the small doorway.

In the small space, Chris generally chose to sit in the pilot's chair. (Rather optimistically named with only a pilot and copilot's seat, but a pilot was a pilot regardless of ship size.) Scott had chosen to take a seat on the floor, so Chris sat opposite him.

Scott hugged his knees and looked away from Chris. He glanced over, then away again.

Seeing that he would not start this conversation, Chris asked, "How was the library?"

"It was nice. How's Alex?"

"He's doing well."

Scott looked at Chris and scowled. "So we're just going to sit here and bullshit each other?" he asked.

"If you want the truth, Scott, your brother's still figuring out where he fits in the world and that's not an easy thing to do. He's struggling, but he'll get there."

There was something innately wrong about a big brother being younger than his little brother, and it wasn't the semantic issue. A big brother was not only a protector but a guide and Scott had not yet become an adult. He didn't need to think yet about careers, didn't need to worry about jobs and bosses. He couldn't be the guide Alex needed.

"And you?" Scott asked. "Where do you fit in this world?"

"I didn't think I fit here at all anymore," Chris said.

"Didn't."

"I never intended to leave you behind. To abandon you. I… I thought you were dead," he explained, the words catching in his throat. Something else Scott seemed not to understand, the pain of it, and Chris didn't want to revisit that horrible day.

He didn't see a choice.

"I thought I watched you die. The last thing I saw was the parachute catching fire. You think I never came back because I didn't care. I never came back because I couldn't bear it. To think of you like that, to visit the graves—if there were graves."

For years, Chris woke up in a panic. He was prone to nightmares—probably where Scott got it—but he didn't scream himself awake. Just woke, pained and wary. Night after night, he watched his sons die, and the pain and stress were clear even speaking about it now. The fact that he mourned for nothing, for two living children, did not change the fact that he mourned.

"You should have come back," Scott insisted, determined but soft. He needed to believe it. His voice, too, was ragged. For Chris? For Alex? Or for himself?

"Yes. I was a different man for a while, after losing you, losing your mother—but I never meant to leave you with just my shadow."

If Chris knew they were alive, nothing would have kept him from his children. Nothing. But believing they were gone made thinking of going back pointless. It was farming salt flats.

"We didn’t have your shadow, though. That’s not how shadows work, you have to _be there_ to cast one. We just had… I don’t know. Nothing. Not your shadow, just the space you leave behind you when you go."

"Do you hate me, Scott?"

The first thing Scott began to say, the shape his mouth formed but didn't follow through on, was yes. Then he paused. He thought about it. Chris watched him closely. Charles had claimed that Scott was a thoughtful boy with a good heart—too good to hate his father, surely. Unless his father deserved it.

"No," Scott admitted, his shoulders sagging. "No, I don't, but I don't like you being here. You're going to leave us again. There's no other way this works out, right? You go back to your life, to your ship?"

Chris considered how to answer that. Yes, he planned to go back—or he could stay, but what would he stay to? He had his son, but no job, no true home. He was legally dead.

He wanted Alex to come with him when he went. The only reason he didn't want the same for Scott was that Scott had so much going for him here. He had a family, a better father.

"Did you love us?" Scott asked, leaving his previous question unanswered.

"More than you can imagine."

"Me, too?"

"I didn't know it was possible to be as happy as I was the day you were born. Your mother was asleep. I held you in the hospital and I wept." It wasn't a word Chris usually used, 'wept'. But it hadn't been _crying_ , had it, not really. "You were so beautiful. You were ugly, all newborns are, but you were mine. I loved you from that moment."

"But it wasn't me, was it? That's the difference. It wasn't me as a person."

Chris regarded him evenly for a moment. Scott was a challenge, he saw that. He wasn't an outright defiant kid—Chris knew Alex had that wildness in him—but earning his trust would be a steep uphill battle.

"You know your mom and I… you know you were conceived before we married?"

Scott nodded.

"Do you know what people think about women who become pregnant before they're married?"

Again he nodded, his jaw tight. Good. Chris was inclined to agree when he realized what people thought about Katherine. He knew they had.

"I came home from leave with a new, very pregnant wife. People talked about her. Until you were born, there were rumors." It was worse than that. Katherine hadn't let on and it was only looking back that Chris realized how lonely she had been and how badly she had needed a friend. Seventeen years old, heavily pregnant and newly married, in a new place where sometimes the sun didn't set all day long… how isolated she had been! "Babies' eyes change for the first year. You were different. From the day you were born, you had my eyes."

Scott's fingers went to his glasses, but it didn't feel like an argument. Chris had to admit, he had a point. He assumed his eyes were still under there, but he had never been able to shoot lasers from them.

"We weren't a family until you. I loved you for what you were at first. Later, when you started to be a person, I loved you for who you were."

Chris watched the way Scott's forehead wrinkled, how he turned just slightly away. He had his arms around his knees but his hold had loosened. He wasn't at ease, but he was much less defensive now.

Slowly, he said, "You hit me."

It stung, but Chris had to tell the truth. "I was drunk."

"I was six."

"Five," Chris corrected. "You were five. After the war, after I came back from the war, things were bad."

Scott nodded.

And he had been _almost_ six. So very nearly six. That wouldn't have made this less horrible.

Chris expected any manner of insults. He would not have been surprised then if Scott got up and walked out of the ship, if hearing Chris admit to it was enough to end what remained of their relationship. Already he braced himself for the pain it would cause. He deserved it, he had no question of that.

Puzzled and tense, Scott asked, "Was it… did I deserve it?"

Rejection would have been easier. That was like a slap in the face. No, Chris had been slapped in the face, this was worse. It made him feel sick. He realized that this was what Charles was so angry with him for.

He reached out to Scott. Scott flinched again.

"Scott—how can you—no. No. I was wrong. I use the drinking for an excuse, but it isn't. It was me. I hurt you."

"But there must have been a reason," Scott insisted. Curious, because he had shown no loyalty to Chris before. Why did he try so hard to justify this? "You wouldn't've, didn't do it just for fun."

 _For fun?_ How broken was this boy's mind?

No, this was not all on Chris. Some of it, yes, but he had never hurt a child because it was fun. He never taught Scott that such a person existed.

"How much do you remember?" Chris asked.

"All of it."

"You were so young."

"I remember how you held my shirt, right here." He touched the back of his collar. "You kept telling me to shut up. Alex hiding his face. Hiding behind the couch. And—after—when, um, Katherine put me in the bath and how the hot water hurt. You don't do that to someone for no reason. I said some mean things, but…"

"Scott, no. Nothing like that. It wasn't your fault. I was unhappy and drunk. I lost control. Fathers aren't supposed to hurt their children and if they do, the child is never to blame."

Scott nodded. "Okay." He didn't sound convinced, just out of arguments.

"You called her Katherine. Is that how you think of her?"

He shrugged. "I still love her, but I have a mom. And a dad. That doesn't change just because you came back. I think she would like Mom. Ruth."

Chris accepted that. He appreciated that his son was loyal and that someone had loved him. Cared for him.

"Where did you grow up?"

"Hell."

"I think I've earned an honest word from you."

"Omaha," Scott muttered. "Hell."

Chris did not read too far into that, aware that Alex, too, had been keen to get out of Omaha. He had not been terribly different as a young man, a fire under his feet getting him out of Akron.

"You do okay in school?"

Scott nodded.

"Is there any chance of this, Scott? I'm not trying to replace… your dad." It wasn't easy to say. Chris still thought of Scott as his son. Could he be Chris's son and have a different dad? "I'd still like to know you and be a part of your life."

"While you're here."

"While I'm here," he admitted.

Scott considered it. Two weeks ago, he wouldn't have done even that.

"I don't know how to do that," he said, more apology than rejection.

"We could try."

Slowly, he nodded. "Okay."


	34. Chaper Thirty-Four

On Tuesday, when Ororo showed up at the end of the day, Scott gave her a wary look. "I talked to him yesterday," he pointed out. He was still not particularly keen on chatting with his backup dad, but more to the point, he wasn't sure what he had left to say.

She shrugged. "Maybe I just want to walk with you."

"Maybe you just want candy."

It didn't stop him trading a few cents for lollipops.

"Which one do you want?"

She picked blue. There were two left and she snickered at which one Scott picked.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing."

He nudged her shoulder. "Come on, what?"

She snickered again: "You picked the red one."

He rolled his eyes, which was no good because she couldn't see them, but it made him feel better. Besides, how upset could he be? The red ones were delicious.

Wednesday they shared a Hershey's bar.

Thursday they each had a Bit o Honey candy, and Ororo threatened to stop talking to Scott for a week. (This resolution lasted only about three minutes.)

When she showed up on Friday, he commented, "That's every day this week. And me thinking you don't like candy at all!"

Ororo rolled her eyes. "It's not the candy, doofus."

"Did you just call me a doofus? What happened to asshole?"

"Doofus doesn't get you grounded."

She had brought in _Kon-Tiki_ and he renewed it for her before they left.

Both blinked as they stepped into the bright afternoon sunshine. There was a sort of finality about Fridays, an end-of-week feeling usually missing from the summer. Even though they liked this routine, the variety of two days off still prompted that tiny, necessary nudge of relief.

Scott was first to spot the boys clustered around his bike. He groaned. Something about him had always attracted bullies. These guys had been bugging him for more than a year now. He hadn't responded, but that didn't stop them.

Ororo held back as Scott headed for his bicycle. For her part, she had no respect for these boys. Sure, she used to be tough on the others back in Cairo—in fact, no one was tougher on new girls than Ororo. But that was different. They needed to be tough, literally, to stay alive. These boys were just soft jerks.

By now she understood that Scott never responded. Still, she watched, a mix of interested and disgusted as they called him stupid names.

"Do you suppose," she began, calling to Scott. He shot her a warning look, but it didn't stop her, "this makes them feel better about the fact you could beat them all up with your eyes closed?"

Scott's bullies looked at Ororo. The two lesser idiots then looked, perplexed, to their boss.

The boss chuckled. "He wishes," he commented, shoving Scott.

Scott continued winding his bike chain. He would drop it into his bag, then they could head home.

"Show them," Ororo suggested. "You only have to show them once."

Scott shook his head.

"Freakazoid's girlfriend is mouthy," one of the lesser idiots commented.

It should have ended there. Ororo's eyes narrowed, but Scott was already pushing his bike, heading toward her. He was ready to go now, and Ororo would have let him coax her away from the idiots.

What the leader of the morons said about her was not the worst possible term he could have used, and it wasn't really surprising to Ororo. She had learned early that her skin would define her to most people. Well—they were idiots.

There was a blur and a crack.

The lead idiot stumbled back, his hands going to his nose, but he couldn't stem the gush of blood. It was definitely broken and bleeding impressively.

The others glanced at each other. Ororo looked at Scott, recognizing a fighting stance.

"I wouldn't," she warned the idiots in the sweetest voice she could muster.

The exchange was too brief to merit the term 'fight'. One of them reached for Scott; he threw the faster and smaller of the two at the bigger, more lumbering idiot. That they crashed into their broken-nosed leader was icing on the cake.

Ororo grinned at Scott.

He shook his head, picked up his bicycle again, and started to walk away.

"What's the matter?" she asked, hurrying after him. "Scott, that was awesome! You won, they'll never bother you again."

He wouldn't answer.

"People don't have the right to push you around. It's good that you stood up for yourself."

No answer.

"They started it. You gave them enough chances to stop acting like jerks. It's not your fault they—"

"Stop it!" Scott snapped. "Stop praising this, it's bad behavior."

"No, it isn't," Ororo replied matter-of-factly. "Everyone has a right to defend themselves. You acted on that right."

He shook his head. "They had no training, they never stood a chance against me. I'm as bad as they are!"

She scoffed. "All they had to do was stop bothering us. And now—"

"And now I'm going to be in trouble. You can't just… just hit someone because they call you names and push you a bit. He's going to be so disappointed."

Perhaps she should have known. It wasn't that Ororo doubted Scott's regret: he had hurt someone and felt badly about it, regardless of how much that person deserved it. But that was nothing compared to the knowledge that Professor Xavier might not approve.

"Do you have a dollar?" she asked when they passed the gas station.

Scott handed over two quarters and three dimes, and waited while Ororo headed into the snack stop. She looked around the shop, surprised at the variety. Everything Scott brought out was new to her, but it seemed old news to him. Did he really know all these junk foods?

She grabbed a packet of mini donuts and left.

"Here."

She handed Scott his change, then tore open the cellophane packaging. They chewed through two donuts each before either of them spoke.

"I could say my feelings were hurt," Ororo offered. "I mean… I'm used to it, to people saying stuff like that, but it's not like I like hearing it."

Scott shook his head. "Thanks, but it was my choice. I knew what I was doing."

"You were grooves back there."

"Grooves, huh?"

"Grooves. Nerd. I think I'm getting my cast off this weekend."

"Already?"

"Yeah."

"You're going to be uneven without it. Just watch, you're so used to having it on."

Ororo shrugged. She supposed it was possible, but she still thought of the cast as new, as unwelcome. Sure, she was used to it, but she still wanted to be able to use both hands completely, or extend her arm fully, or brush her own hair. (Or not. She rather liked the ritual of Ruth braiding it every morning.)

When they reached the gate, Scott checked the mail, the way he always did. This time he took out a letter and dropped it in his bag.

Ororo raised an eyebrow, but didn't ask. She was busy with plotting of her own.

Keeping Scott occupied wasn't terribly busy. Ororo just called out to Alex and Chris, waved, and suggested Scott should join them. Scott clearly didn't want to, and stammered out something about interfering and everyone was busy and so on.

"You said you two were on okay terms," she accused.

Scott was still a bit withdrawn, even for him, but he wasn't walking around carrying a raincloud. That really bothered her: she controlled the rain and clouds around here!

"We are," he said, "but I don't want to take this time away from Alex, and—"

"Alex doesn't mind," Ororo promised. "Do you, Alex?"

Given the look on Alex's face, he did mind—and Ororo knew it. She gave him a look that was a mix of adorable little sister and a promise of a favor owed.

Alex sighed.

"Get over here and learn how to hold a screwdriver," he said.

"I know how to hold a screwdriver," Scott retorted, but he started toward Alex. He paused to glanced back at Ororo just once. She gave him an encouraging nod.

"So prove it, twerp."

"Jerk."

"Shrimp."

"Boys," Chris said, putting a stop to the bickering—for the moment.

Ororo pushed Scott's bike up to the mansion and left it leaning against the wall, then headed inside. "Ruth?" she called. She tended to move with a hop in her step at the best of times. Now that hop moved a bit more quickly as she peered into each room she passed. "Mom? Ruth?"

"In here!"

She should have guessed Ruth would be in the kitchen. "How come you like cooking so much, anyway?" Ororo asked.

Ruth shrugged. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail today, her fingernails caked with flour and jeans smeared with what looked like tomato sauce.

"Because it is fun," she said. "And because I am Jewish. Try this."

Ororo took it and nibbled. "Gah! What the—no," she decreed.

"The garlic, I thought this might be a problem," Ruth said, making Ororo wonder why she had to be the one to taste the stupid too-garlic bread. "Do you know, when you are Jewish—"

"I'm never Jewish."

Ruth waved away the objected. "To someone who is Jewish, to eat is a prayer. Because life is sacred above all things, and we must eat to live. So, eat, worship…"

It made sense, Ororo had to admit.

"I need to talk to you," she said.

"Okay. What happened?"

Ororo explained about the boys in town, how they had been bothering Scott for a while and what he did today. She wasn't sure why she was so determined to stand up for Scott when he could have told this story himself, but she was. Making Scott stay outside with Alex and Chris was necessary so that Ruth would hear Ororo’s perspective first, and could tell Charles.

Ruth listened, nodded, and seemed to understand that Scott had needed to fight back. Ororo was relieved right up until she started setting the table. Then her relief faded—and not just because she was uninterested in table-setting.

Just down the hall, she saw Charles and Scott. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but from the way Scott stood with his head down, he had to be talking about the fight. Ororo sighed. Stupid boy! Couldn't he let her fix this for once?

They _needed_ Ruth to explain. She would understand! And anyway, Charles never wanted to hurt anybody. Some people deserved it.

So, when everyone but Hank had sat down to dinner—Hank was too busy in the lab, "eminent to a breakthrough!"—Ororo mentioned it again.

"Can we talk about what happened in town today?" she asked.

"What happened in town?" Alex asked.

"We saw that there's a showing of _Dr. No_ and _From Russia with Love_ at the theater," Scott said. "Next weekend, next Saturday."

Ororo glared at him.

"What time is it showing?" Charles asked. He hadn't seen either of the films, but he had read about them a bit, in passing. Seemed okay. Popular, certainly.

"Um… laterish," Scott admitted. "Eight-thirty."

"You may go as long as someone goes with you."

"I'll go," Ororo volunteered. She had never been in a movie theater. She wasn't sure she exactly wanted to, not knowing what all the fuss was about, but it was an opportunity to get out of the mansion again. Much as she liked it here, she needed to feel less like the world ended at the walls.

"An adult," Charles amended.

"What about me and Dad?" Alex suggested.

"Alex," Chris said.

"I always want to see a movie with nak—with spies in it. Who doesn't like spies?"

Ororo raised her eyebrows at the slip-up, but Alex gave her a quick shake of his head. Whatever it was, she all but had permission to go to the theater, so she was sure she would find out when they saw the movie.

"Scott?" Charles asked.

"Okay with me," Scott murmured.

"All right, then," Charles agreed.

"But about what happened in town," Ororo insisted. "Scott beat up some kids."

"Don't say it like that," Scott said. "They're not kids. They're older than me."

"Who was it?" Alex asked. "Someone wanna pass me the noodles, by the way? Like if you're bored. Hey, no pressure."

Ruth passed him the noodles.

Scott pushed food around on his plate and described the boys.

Alex promptly named them all. "They had it coming," he said. "I know those guys, they're total fu—"

Charles cleared his throat.

"…unpleasant," Alex amended.

"That doesn't make it all right to hurt them," Charles replied, clearly directing his comment at Scott.

"I said I was sorry," Scott muttered. He had gone very red in the face.

"Until you've said it to them, that's an apology with very little meaning."

"If you apologize to them, I won't talk to you for a week," Ororo added. "A whole week. How much of the story did he tell you, Professor?"

Charles looked from her to Scott and back. "I really don't see that this is a conversation to be had with everyone present, Ororo," he said.

"Did he tell you that they pushed him?" Ororo asked. "Or what they said about me?"

Scott looked ready to push away from the table, but Charles rested a hand on his arm. It was gentle—but easily enough to keep him from running away.

"Sometimes it is okay to fight back," Ruth offered. "I do not teach you to fight because I think you will not, ever."

"It wasn't a fair fight," Scott said. "They didn't know how to defend themselves."

"So what?" Ruth retorted. "These boys, they have bothered you for a while now?"

"Well… yes."

"How long is this?"

"About a year."

"And they push you?"

"Sometimes—not that often."

"But they do push you."

Scott nodded.

"Fair fight does not matter," Ruth said. "You do not start it, you give them more than enough time to stop and they do not, you do not lead them on. When you pick a fight, it will be fair or you answer to me. But you did not pick this. And you ended it with no broken bones, yes?"

"One of their noses."

"Excellent," Alex said, then quickly fell silent again at the stern looks he was given—just a grumbled, "It is excellent."

Ruth waved it off. "Cartilage," she said. "Not bone. _Ha'kol tov_. This is fine."

Ororo ducked her head to hide how hugely she was grinning.


	35. Chaper Thirty-Five

Charles was rather overwhelmed with the sense that his household was wholly outside his control. He understood by now that welcoming people in did not mean controlling them—sometimes in ways so small as his inability to keep Alex from swearing near-constantly, sometimes so huge as Erik.

Seeing things spiraling out of his grip today, he resolved that if he could not fix this, he would at least understand it.

That evening, after he read to Ororo—she was far more enthralled in Thor Heyerdahl's adventures than she would ever admit—Charles asked, "Would you care to explain your behavior at dinner tonight?"

"Is that really a question?"

"No."

Ororo shrugged. She did not look at all apologetic, but then, Charles had not expected her to. Ororo's actions were deliberate and he had no doubt she stood by her reasoning.

"I knew Scott wouldn't tell the truth."

"Scott did tell the truth, Ororo."

She shook her head. "No, not really. Like that he was… er… pre, um—dammit."

"Provoked?"

"Provoked, yes. That."

"He did neglect to mention certain details on that matter, yes."

"I was there, Professor, and I watch what happened. Scott, well, you have this expression, right, that someone sees the world through rose-tinted glasses? Scott _literally_ sees the world through rose-tinted glasses. He doesn't understand people. He understands America but he doesn't understand people."

While Charles was not certain Ororo fully understood that expression, he could not disagree with her reasoning. He rarely could. She was a very clever young woman with her own fierce perspective.

"Fair enough," he allowed, "but Scott's obscured worldview is scarcely news. Why did you say something this time?"

Her expression shifted and he knew he had asked the right question.

"Today in town, Scott didn't hit those boys because they were mean to him. He hit them because they were mean to me. I don't need someone to stand up for me, but it wasn't like that. More like… like he took it personally. People have tried to stand up for me before, but not like that."

That he could accept. Whether she realized it or not, Ororo had stood up for Scott and protected him in her own way—by manipulating those around her—like family, because that was how he treated her.

* * *

 

Charles kept this in mind when he went to see Scott.

These conversations were quite different from those he had with Ororo. More difficult. Ororo kept a man on his toes, but Scott… the boy didn't bleed red, he bled pure uncut pain.

"Am I grounded?" he asked, setting aside his latest favorite Steinbeck novel.

Charles sighed. "I may not like the way you handled that situation, but I can't say that I see any better solution. Has this really been going on for a year?"

"Or so, yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

There was a note of hurt in Charles's voice. It was Scott's decision of course, but Charles truly didn't understand why Scott would keep this secret. He didn't know what he could have done, but he was simply so used to Scott coming to him with problems—or at least hiding them so badly Charles easily guessed what was going on.

Scott's response was painfully logical. "What could you have done?" he asked. "I keep turning it over in my head. I… I think I might have done the least bad thing. They were either going to keep bothering me or get drafted and leave town. I could avoid the library, but that's a big thing to give up. And why should I? I didn't do anything wrong."

"No—no, you did not," Charles said. "I'm not pleased about the fighting, but I'm very impressed that you continued going for so long. And I'm not certain what else you could have done, in that situation."

"Is Ororo mad? She's hard to read sometimes."

 _Sometimes,_ Charles thought. He could not help but hear Scott's recollection of Ororo shouting his name to Chris.

"Actually, I think she was quite touched," Charles said. "You didn't fight with them for bothering you, you did it because they insulted Ororo. She saw that."

Scott nodded. "That makes sense," he acknowledged. He let those boys pick on him for over a year without responding. "May I ask you about college?"

It was a common subject of conversation and Charles honestly didn't mind. He wanted Scott to feel ready for college—hopefully talking about it could bolster his lacking sense of self-confidence.

"What would you like to know?"

"Well… basically every adult I know either went to college or joined the army. I can't join the army, not with these," Scott said, touching his glasses. "What if you don't do either?"

Charles wanted to claim it was college, military, or nothing—because the military was out and that would force Scott to focus on college. But he couldn't. Instead, he said, "You would go to work, but you have the opportunity to go to college. Why wouldn't you take it?"

"I just don't want to go."

"Why?"

Scott shrugged.

Accepting that he wouldn't get more of an answer on the subject, Charles asked instead, "Are you ready to talk about the orphanage?"

Scott shook his head. "I don't know where to start."

It wasn't meant as an objection so much as a request for help. He had spent twenty years in that place, most of it being lied to and manipulated. Untangling the memories that had been scrambled and buried took help.

"There's something I'd like to explore, but it's going to be difficult."

Scott twitched. He didn't answer outright, but Charles understood the general idea. This was always difficult.

"Do you remember being there with Alex?"

Scott shook his head. "No, but I always knew about him. I had the pictures."

"Of course," Charles said, reaching out to touch the frame on the nightstand. At Scott's age, he had similar framed photos of his mother and Albert Einstein. Scott had a photo of himself as a toddler with his parents; Alex had one of himself as a baby with Scott.

"Other pictures. Mr. Milbury gave them to me. He would get another sometimes, of Alex growing up. 'You're not special. You can always be replaced. Be a good boy or I'll find someone who can…'"

Scott buried his face against his knees. Charles stroked his hair while he trembled, reflecting that on top of being pure evil, Milbury's threat had not even been _logical_. No one in the world was more of a good boy than Scott. And if Milbury wanted obedience, he wouldn't have been at all satisfied with Alex!

It raised an interesting question, however.

"Scott, can we follow that memory? I'd like to look into something, if it's not too much for you."

Scott raised his head and nodded.

Of course: ever the good boy.

"Do you remember when Mr. Milbury threatened to bring Alex back to the orphanage?"

Scott shook his head. "He said it a lot."

"That if you weren't good enough, he would hurt your brother."

He nodded.

"Scott… do you understand that you are good? That you always have been?"

Scott shrugged.

"If I have not made clear to you every day how grateful I am to have you here, that is my failing and not yours."

Which earned a raised head and a sort of sniffle-and-throat-clearing combo of someone who had not quite begun to cry and was trying nonetheless to stop.

Well. Sometimes a touch of dramatics was called for.

"I must ask you, though, knowing now that you are safe. Please try to remember."

Scott did, and it hit them both like a freight train.

_In second grade, a policeman visits Scott's class at school. His crisp uniform and shiny shoes make him the most impressive man Scott has seen since his daddy died. He talks to the class about how if someone hurts you, you should tell your teacher._

_Somehow, Mr. Milbury knows._

_He was already mad. And it wasn't his fault—he wasn't the clumsy little shit who dropped the glass. The third glass this week. No, even though it hurt, even though he keeps his arms loosely over his tummy so nothing bumps the bruises, Scott knows it's his fault. He deserved it—he's bad and needs to learn to behave._

_But it hurts…_

_Milbury doesn't ask if Scott plans to tell. He already knows. As the boy heads for the front door, ready to walk to the bus stop, Milbury says, "Do you know what the police do to bad boys?"_

_Scott pauses. Shakes his head._

_"I only want to teach you, Scott. Am I to be blamed that you refuse to learn? The police, however, take bad boys and lock them up forever in dark little rooms."_

_Scott gulps. Is that true? Don't the police protect people?_

_"Still…" Milbury runs a hand through Scott's hair. His fingers clench and he yanks the boy's head back. "Tell," he whispers. "Tell them. I'll be rid of you—I'll have someone better…"_

**_Another memory..._ **

_A soft, mechanical whirring and the cacophony of breaking glass. The clatter of metal thrown to the floor. Harsh light. Metal, tile, cold._

_And fear. Afraid to cower and unable not to, Scott watches Milbury destroy equipment in the laboratory. Milbury grips sheets of paper in his hand. Something has gone wrong, or just not gone right…_

_"You worthless idiot!"_

_Milbury slams him against the wall. Scott knows better than to fight back, just lets his body go limp as the wall hits him again and again._

_"Next—time—it—will—work! This time—" Milbury hisses, "—you'll remember what happens if it doesn't work."_

_The pictures are pinned to a bulletin board, untouched by the tantrum: school photos of a smiling blond boy. A miniature Alex. And Scott looks, drinks in the only time he sees his brother, while Milbury drops him onto a lab table._

_And he tries to be good._

_Tries._

_Doesn't even fight when he feels the needle go in and the flames of pain spreading through his body._

**_Another memory..._ **

_At twelve, Scott breaks the rules._

_He runs away._

_He tells._

_He is not believed. Milbury is called to retrieve him and the drive home passes in silence. Scott doesn't cry. He is too numb and too drained._

_Only when they are inside does Milbury hand down the consequence._

_"Pack."_

_"What?"_

_"Go to your room. Pack your things. Get out. I'm through with you; we'll see if Alexander is more capable—"_

_"No, please!"_

_"Shut up. What did you expect? I'm through with you—with your failure, your idiocy, your pathetic sniveling. I have been patient. No more."_

_"Please! I—I can do better."_

_"No, you cannot."_

_"But I will—"_

_"You won't! You can't."_

_"No, I can't."_

_Milbury caresses his face gently and it makes Scott's guts turn to lava, but he doesn't move away._

_"You're worthless."_

_"Yes—I am—I'm worthless."_

_"How many chances have I given you for which you have been completely ungrateful?"_

_"A lot."_

_The slap makes his teeth rattle. So does the next one._

_"Hm," Milbury observes._

_He hits him again._

_"If you cry, or scream, or whine, your brother takes your place."_

_Scott does not cry. He does not scream. He does not whine. Not until Milbury leaves and he is alone in the hallway, gently exploring the growing bruises, his fingers now and again discovering a patch of blood._

_Milbury will never say the words again. Instead every day will bring a new reminder—to be silent. To be obedient. To ask for nothing, because he has already been given a gift far greater than he deserved._

* * *

 

"Hank, I need a drink."

After he was paralyzed, Charles spent several weeks in a cycle of drinking, becoming deeply hungover, and fixing it by drinking. After Sean died, Alex did the same—until Scott took away his alcohol.

Charles realized now why Scott hadn't simply hidden the alcohol in his own bedroom or poured it down the sink. The smell still bothered him.

The realization only made Charles need that drink more. It was rotgut, of course, but it would do the job.

"Is that a good idea?" Hank asked.

For the first time, Charles looked around. He saw the way Hank hurriedly moved something away from his arm and a glint of something that looked like a needle.

"What are you—no, not tonight—where's the alcohol?"

"What's going on?"

"I think I understand what was going on in the orphanage. It wasn't arbitrary—it would have been so much better if it were arbitrary, Hank."

Hank looked a touch blank.

And, in truth, Charles wished it were. It was a strange thing to wish, but the truth was worse. Milbury had provided Scott with school pictures of Alex, getting a year older—while Scott did not age properly. Milbury planned that torture in advance.

"Scott doesn't know, he doesn't understand, but it's clear from his memories. Anyone with any history in laboratory work can see it. This whole thing was deliberate, measured, and planned years in advance. We knew there were experiments, but nothing like this, this was... this was torture. I never imagined the extent of it."

Hank looked away, a guilty expression on his face.

Unfortunately, he was painfully easy to read.

"You _knew_?"

"I've seen the scars."

_Why would someone have a scar like this?_

When Ororo asked that, Charles had assumed she meant an autopsy scar. Now he realized…

"Vivisection?"

Hank nodded.

Charles laid a hand across his eyes, shaking his head.

"Charles, what happened to the orphanage?"

"I contacted authorities in Omaha, I had Milbury arrested, he's in prison now."

"Good."

"I don't understand this, I don't know how anyone can do those things to a child. To anyone, but especially to a child."

Hank gave him a sympathetic look, but the truth was that he couldn't understand it either.

"About that drink?"

"Ruth will be waiting for you, won't she?"

Charles considered a moment. He heard Hank’s resolve wavering and knew that if he asked once more, Hank would give in—he didn’t have it in him to refuse. And Charles could be delightfully below any of these concerns. He sighed. “I suppose you’re right, Hank.”


	36. Chapter Thirty-Six

_Scott looks like a doll. All wrapped up against the cold, only his face is visible. His cheeks shimmer, smeared with Vaseline to protect against the wind, and those eyes…_

_"You look just like your daddy," Katherine tells him._

_Like if he hadn't fought and wrenched and torn his way out, she might doubt he was any of hers at all. Except how much she loves him, of course. And she does, even when he drives her halfway to crazy._

_She hums softly and rubs his back the entire trip to the library, soothing him against a potential outburst, but Scott nestles against her shoulder and sleeps soundly. They have to go to the library. She needs the familiar, soothing scent of pages. She needs the embrace of the quiet._

_She needs the boost to her confidence._

_Katherine's heart flutters. She knows that flutter. It used to be a good feeling, the secret glances between them. Now it twirls like nausea._

_She loves Chris. She loves Scott. She loves their home._

_But._

_Chris is good, kind, contagious when he's joyful (and damned handsome and they both know it!), but he is not happy._

_Scott is beautiful when he smiles, but he cannot sleep and he screams to wake the dead._

_Their home is lovely, but somehow, always, she misses something. Katherine never did well in home economics; she has painted a garden down the hallway but always a spot of dirt, of dust, of cobwebs remains. The kitchen remembers boiled-over pots; underdone meat; overcooked vegetables. (Charcoal.) The only reliable meal she provides comes from her body._

_Katherine loves but life is so hard and she is so alone. She cries at night; Chris is exhausted and Scott understands nothing in his infant mind. Her voice searches when she says those words—"I love you"—for something not found._

_She stands in the kitchen and takes a deep breath._

_"Today will be different, Scott."_

_Of course, she expects no answer._

* * *

 

Scott had received a letter the previous afternoon and buried it in a dresser drawer—figuring that was the safest place because even if somebody went digging under his boxers, nobody would admit to it. (He suspected his brother of possessing a spring-loaded snake. He couldn't level this accusation, of course. Alex would have made a joke that could scar him for the rest of his very long life.)

The following morning, however, he withdrew the letter and tucked it into his back pocket. He couldn't keep this a secret. It was pointless and wrong.

On his way to the lab, Scott bumped into Ororo.

"Uh-oh," he remarked, noticing her grin. "What are you up to?"

"I'm not _up to_ anything," she replied. She held up her cast and laughed. "Hospital. It's coming off today!"

"Enjoy being lopsided."

"Un-lopsided!"

"You'll overcompensate."

"Like you do?"

He sighed. "I walked into that."

"You know, because you have a small—"

"Ororo."

"—Twinkie."

Scott shook his head. His face had gone slightly pink, but he didn't give her the satisfaction of looking away. "Better hurry or you'll miss your appointment. They might make you keep it on an extra week!"

Ororo glared at him, but she hurried.

Scott continued to the lab. He needed to talk to Charles—but first, he needed to see Hank. Hank didn't have expectations the way Charles did, which made him much easier to talk to, and he seemed tougher. There was a reason Hank had seen Scott's scars and Charles had not.

So when faced with a difficult decision, Scott started by talking it through with Hank.

Or he meant to. He passed an open door and noticed Alex and Chris attempting to clean dark muck off themselves with a garden hose.

Scott hesitated, considering moving on and simply not acknowledging them—not interrupting, pretending he hadn't noticed. It would be better. But he was supposed to talk to his father, the whole world seemed to say, so he asked, "What happened?"

Chris and Alex traded glances. "Alex," Chris prompted.

"I was rerouting a secondary coolant supply," Alex said. He looked at the mess on his hands and shirt. "Well, that was the idea."

"It didn't go quite according to plan," Chris acknowledged, "but it was a good idea."

"Is that what coolant looks like?" Scott asked. He wasn't much with cars, but that wasn't what he imagined.

Alex gave him a look. "In space it is."

Scott wasn't sure what made Alex an expert on being in space, but he accepted that. He nodded and went on his way.

"Hank," he began, letting himself into the lab, "this came yesterday and—who the hell are you?" He started out calmly, if slightly tense. The question was shouted.

Hank wasn't here.

Instead, Scott was a scrawny, slightly twitchy young man in baggy clothes and wire-rimmed glasses. Scott's hand went to his glasses.

"Who are you," he asked, a threat heavily implied, "and what are you doing here?"

"It's not what you think," the stranger said. "Scott, it's me."

"Who? How do you know my name?"

"It's me—Hank. It's Hank."

Well, that was _stupid._

"You're not Hank. You don't look anything like him," Scott said. Hank was a rather difficult man to imitate. After all, one either was or was not a furry giant.

"I am," not-Hank insisted. "I know… I know about the laundry room door."

Scott shook his head. It wasn't enough.

"You have a scar," he began, and roughly mimed the scar on Scott's chest.

"He sent you!"

"No!"

Scott nudged his glasses up, ready to blow the wall out of the house.

"Scott, I know—I know why you don't like Andy Griffith."

Scott hesitated. He lowered his glasses, but kept his hand on them as he asked, "Hank?"

Just then, Alex and Chris burst into the lab, Alex explaining, "We heard shouting, he was worried and Bozo! You're back!" He, too, changed his tone when he noticed the scrawny fellow. But he didn't seem to mind.

Alex walked over and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Nice!" he remarked. Then, to Scott, "This is Hank. This is what he looked like before he Raven'd himself."

"Raven'd himself?" Scott asked.

Hank narrowed his eyes at Alex.

"Whoops."

Before Alex could worsen the situation, Chris stepped in. "Everything's all right?" he asked.

Hank nodded. "It's fine. Scott didn't know what I looked like before, that's all."

Alex opened his mouth to say something.

"We'll leave you to your conversation, then," Chris said. " _Alex._ "

Alex looked between Hank and Scott, and decided, "I should see about fixing that coolant system, anyway. Nice job, Hank."

Scott watched them leave, uncertain about much of what he just happened and most bothered by a single question: was his brother a good person? _Bozo?!_ That was a horrible thing to call someone! Then again, Alex also called him twerp and Ororo gnat, and he did that affectionately…

"Congratulations," he said, finally. "I guess. You look… different. No—you don't."

Hank nodded, and Scott assumed he understood: he looked not-different from everyone else.

"I wanted to hide my mutation," Hank explained. He held up one of his feet and Scott saw that it was more like a hand. "So I experimented on myself, I used pieces of Raven's cells to build a cure."

"A cure?"

"Obviously, it didn't work. I was able to use pieces of your cells to reverse the effect. This is what I looked like before."

Scott just nodded, trying to take that in. Mostly it was a blur and rush, but he did register that Hank said 'pieces of cells'. He tried teaching Scott about organelles, but it had been a difficult concept to grasp. For Scott, things he couldn't experience in practice were difficult to understand.

After too long a silence, Hank said, "You were saying that something arrived?"

"Yes."

"What…?"

"Oh! Um—it's—it's this." Scott took the letter out of his pocket and handed it over. "From the fourth of July."

Hank nodded. He turned over the envelope. "You haven't opened it?"

Scott shook his head.

Hank handed the letter back.

"Hank…" He really wanted to talk about this. But could he? With this Hank, the different Hank? "Hank, what if I don't want to go to college?"

"Why don't you want to go to college?"

Scott shrugged. "I don't want to go." He had explained this several times, but no one ever seemed to understand.

"Then why did you…?"

"For the Professor."

"Of course."

"I'll talk to him."

"You should do that."

Scott nodded. "I will."

So his conversation with Hank did not provide all the clarity he might have hoped. If anything, he left feeling foggier. Someone must have told him before that Hank used to look smaller and less, well, furry, but seeing it still came as a shock.

Scott wanted to be happy for his friend. Hank had something he had apparently wanted, and Scott had been able to help him. Granted, that help had been indirect, but it still counted. Right?

He still wasn't certain, and it must have shown because the moment he sat down in the study Charles asked, "What's wrong?"

"It's—it's nothing." Scott shouldn't be the one to tell Charles, anyway. This was Hank's achievement.

"In which case—"

"I mean, there is something," Scott interrupted. He cleared his throat nervously. "I, um… I don't want to go to college, but I know it's what you want. And you know what's best for me, so, it is what it is." He handed over the sealed envelope. It was a relief, really: the thing had been burning a hole since he found it in the postbox.

Charles took the envelope, looked to Scott for an explanation, then back to the envelope when he saw none forthcoming.

He set down the letter and said, "You don't want to go to college."

Scott nodded.

"Why?"

"I just… I don't…" he stammered, then shrugged helplessly.

"Is it math—is it algebra?" Charles guessed. Scott did not do well in math. Geometry was going much better, but algebra had been a very steep uphill battle. "Not every degree focuses on sciences."

He understood about liberal arts degrees. Charles and Hank had both talked to him about them, but it was really Ruth who helped him understand— _you think this is something I studied? What do I need with math? Okay, yes, this is true, one class, but not so much. Only one for all four years._

"It's not that."

"The cost?"

"No…" A little bit.

"Then why?"

"I don't want to go."

A flicker of frustration cross his face. "And I cannot understand why—" And he changed tones entirely, realizing, "You don't want to go. This isn't about college at all, is it?"

Scott shook his head. "I've never really had a home before. I don't want to leave it for anything—but if that's what you want…"

"Oh, Scott. This is _Westchester_! There are plenty of wonderful liberal arts schools in the city. You don't have to leave home."

"I don't?"

"As if I would even allow it."

"But I could do college without… without leaving?"

"You could indeed."

For the first time, Scott thought about college and smiled. He had never before realized that going to school didn't have to mean… _going_ to school.

"Now, as to these." Charles picked up a letter opener and sliced open the envelope, then slid out the sheets of paper inside. He was quiet for far too long as he read them over.

"It was sort of a… trial run. Hank said it's helpful to try it once and have the experience."

Charles raised his eyebrows. "Hank knew about this, then."

"Well… I had to tell someone where I was going. Otherwise you never would have agreed."

"The fourth of July," he realized.

"Yes."

He lowered the papers for a moment. "You decided to sneak out to take the SAT."

Well, when he put it that way… "Yes."

"You're in the ninety-sixth percentile for language arts."

"I got ninety-six percent of the questions right?"

Charles visibly winced. "We'll keep working on the math," he said, "but no, not exactly. Ninety-sixth percentile means you scored higher than ninety-five percent of people who took this test. It also means that you are absolutely going to college, these are not the scores of someone who stops at a high school diploma."

Well, wasn't that Scott's luck. The one time he snuck out, it sealed his fate!


	37. Chaper Thirty-Seven

_Thanksgiving._

_Katherine and Chris cough as they flap tea towels, waving thick, dark plumes of smoke out of the kitchen. The temperature drops a dozen degrees as they work to clear the air. Their eyes sting._

_She has never cooked a turkey before. With only three members of the household and only two eating solid food, Katherine felt brave enough to attempt a roast chicken. Grateful to have one in 1937, but is it not something every wife should be able to cook for her husband?_

_When they breathe easier, they risk cutting into the bird. Burnt to a crisp on the outside, its insides are pink and dribbly. It makes Chris chuckle until he sees the stricken look on Katherine's face._

_"Katherine… is that Scott waking up?"_

_"I don't think so."_

_"I thought I heard fussing."_

_"I'll go check on him."_

_Chris loves his wife and won't hear a word of criticism against her. He knows what the others think (the baby has his eyes; that helps) but he won't stand for it._

_But._

_His wife._

_Darling Katherine._

_Love of his life._

_The sidewalk fries an egg better than she does, even here in Alaska._

_"Katherine?"_

_He joins her in their bedroom, Katherine bent over the basket crib thing the baby sleeps in (he assumes the wicker serves as flood protection for Scott). He sleeps now, Scott does, through the night usually._

_"Chris. I'm so—I can't tell you how sorry…"_

_"Don't be hurt, but I thought this might be a problem."_

_When Katherine sees the plate in his hands and realizes what he has piled on it, she laughs. It is a soft, half-crying laugh, but nonetheless a laugh._

_They spend their first Thanksgiving together with a quilt wrapped around them and a fire burning in the fireplace, laughing over turkey sandwiches. When he suggests that the earlier smoke has permeated their clothes, well, what can they do but lose a layer or two!_

* * *

 

The following morning hit the roof in hundreds of heavy droplets, an inexplicable rainstorm—but that isn't what Chris Summers remarked upon as he glanced out the kitchen window.

"Is that something to worry about?"

Ruth leaned back to see what he meant. "Ah. This is normal."

The kitchen already smelled like bacon. Scott was at the counter, mixing batter for pancakes. He did not say much to his father, to anyone for that matter, but he was here and not seething. It was an improvement.

Alex, meanwhile, had attempted to help but ultimately realized he was only frustrating Scott with his lack of understanding in the kitchen. (After Alex confused, in a single incident, the teaspoon for the tablespoon and the baking soda for the baking powder, Scott asked him to _please_ if you would _be so kind_ have a seat elsewhere. Then he started the batter over.)

The last person in the kitchen was Charles, watching a teapot.

"What's she up to?" he asked.

"Getting rained on," Ruth replied. "She does this," she assured Chris.

"And the, ah, state of dress is normal also?" he asked.

"I see none to remark upon," Ruth reasoned.

"True enough. You're not worried she'll get sick?"

"Ororo does not get colds. Not from the weather."

Charles chose to join in the conversation now with, "No one gets colds from the weather. We get colds from viruses. The lack of humidity in winter air is a far larger factor than temperature, whereas—oh, look," he said, realizing he was being stared at, "the tea's brewed."

Ruth gave him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. "I think you are sexy when you talk like a professor."

Charles had resisted the term for so long—from the moment he received his doctorate, in fact—and a part of him still did. He had become resigned to it, but nonetheless had to sigh. Somehow from Ruth this was different from when the children called him 'Professor'.

"Hearing that from you makes me feel like I'm losing my hair."

The response from Alex was: _Kind of late to start worrying with that bald spot!_ "Honestly, Alex," Charles retorted, "it's too early for this and I do not have a bald spot."

The others traded glances.

"What?"

"Alex didn't say anything," Chris said.

"Of course he—" Charles began. He looked to Ruth. "Nothing at all?"

She shook her head. "You must have been hearing his thoughts."

"Alex, I apologize, that was… disrespectful."

Alex nodded. "That's okay."

"I don't have a bald spot, though."

"You kinda do," Alex said.

"Alex."

"You do!" Alex insisted. "Scott?"

Scott turned around, a worried look on his face. He stood at the stove. There was a pan on the burner, a pat of butter melting. Pancakes. That was what mattered right now: pancakes.

Oh yes.

Cakes in a pan.

"I'm… I'm just making the pancakes."

"That's a yes!" Alex decreed, pleased to have been proved right.

He had a history of bad behavior and no one would argue with that, which made it that much more important a point that this time he hadn't done anything wrong. He simply thought an observation.

However, apparently not immune to observing the emotions of others, he offered, "You could always get one of those fake hairpieces."

Charles supplied the term: "A toupee."

"Yeah. That thing."

"Then," Ruth reasoned, "you would have your own hair again."

Released from this conversation, Scott turned back to the pancakes. The butter was melted now and beginning to bubble. It spat as he poured cold batter into the pan.

Charles acknowledged Ruth's claim that a toupee would be his own hair, but, "Well, not exactly."

"Why not?" she reasoned. "You pay for something and this makes it yours."

She was not fundamentally wrong on the concept of ownership, but the principle was rather different.

Alex chimed in, "Like how you paid for Scott and he always does what you tell him—you paid for him, he's yours."

"You're not funny, Alex," Scott said.

"I am though. I'm funny."

"Nope."

"Maybe the problem is you have no sense of humor."

"Maybe the problem is you have a tiny—"

"Scott Matthew Summers!" Charles interrupted. "Don't say something you'll regret. Much more and I'll have to ground you. Still, well done. You deserved that, Alex. Saying I'm going bald."

Alex opened his mouth, but Chris shook his head.

"Alex, set the table," Ruth said. "Scott, go see if your sister wants breakfast."

"And ask her to put some clothes on if so," Charles added.

Both left the room. A moment later Scott crossed the doorway in the opposite direction, saying something about a towel.

Now that they were gone, Ruth nodded at Chris. "Ask," she said.

"Ask?"

"You have something."

Chris began to shake his head, then said, "You said you paid for him."

"Alex said I paid for him," Charles responded. Nonetheless, because it was true, "Single men are not considered sufficient family for a child, even one so nearly grown. I knew Scott wouldn't feel truly safe here until it was legal, so I offered certain incentives to look the other way."

"Charles…"

He saw the gratitude in Chris's eyes and he understood. Matters were improving between Chris and Scott, but Scott was still something of a tender subject. The hints of his time in the orphanage were clear enough that his life had not always been a happy one, the way he behaved… and Chris was grateful. Someone had loved Chris's son in his absence enough that he would break the law and offer what had to be a significant bribe.

Of course, a significant bribe to a career soldier like Chris was a drop in the bucket to Charles.

It was past saying, so Charles spared him the need: "You're welcome."

He didn't mention that it was actually unnerving. He had essentially bought a child. Charles adopted Scott to give him a sense of security and certainty, but there were other, less scrupulous people in the world. He had been quite displeased when the social worker implied he might intend all manner of damage and perversion, but later Charles was glad she asked. Someone was trying to look out for Scott.

* * *

 

Charles had not seen Hank in over a day, so after Alex, Chris, Ororo, and Scott headed into town to watch two James Bond movies in a row, Charles sought out Hank. Generally not speaking to Hank for days wasn't uncommon, but he had undone the blue-fur appearance. Surely that was something to celebrate.

And Charles was wondering if he might be able to use this new discovery for… other things. Other major physical changes.

Like, for example, a spinal cord injury.

"Hank?" he called, knocking at the laboratory door.

"Come in!"

"Hank, I—you're blue!"

Yes, Hank looked blue. It shouldn't have surprised Charles. He had seen Hank blue every day for years. In fact, he realized, he had barely known Hank before. What had it been, two weeks in 1962? Charles could now genuinely say that Hank was his friend and nearly every significant moment of that friendship occurred after Hank's misfiring "cure".

Hank looked up from his microscope. "Yeah," he said, in a baffled tone.

"Yes, of course. I, um… ahem…"

"You didn't—"

"I wasn't…"

"Scott told you."

"He did," Charles admitted.

Hank shrugged. He was clearly unhappy about this, but instead said, "It wasn't a secret." He started to turn back to his microscope, then paused and said, "I think I frightened him. Which is ironic, because anyone else would be frightened of…" and he indicated his current blue form.

"But it did work."

"It was temporary. I'm working on stabilizing the reaction."

Charles nodded. He asked the logical question then: how did it work.

Hank had once said that while he was probably the smartest person he knew, Ororo was fast catching up. She still had a lot of education ahead of her, though. So when Hank answered Charles's question and in the ensuing conversation, both were aware that this was simply not something they could share with anyone else.

The conclusion was that the cure, temporary as it was, probably would work on Charles. If he was willing to take it, accepting the risks, he might be able to walk tonight.

"Theoretically," Hank continued, "it should even restore the lost muscle mass."

Charles's legs, at the moment, were as strong as any muscles that hadn't been used in two years. Even if this cure temporarily restored his spine, without his legs improved he would still need the wheelchair.

"Hank, I have two teenagers to look after, and Alex. If it means I can enjoy the one night I have with my girlfriend, I would take cocaine."

"That's… extreme and personal," Hank commented, obviously a touch uncomfortable with what he had been told. "And you understand the origins of the technology?"

"I understand it was primarily yours."

Hank shifted. "Well… yes. It's also from the adaptations to Scott's cells and the work Milbury did. The man may be one of the most evil people on the planet, but he's a certifiable genius."

Charles considered that for a moment. He considered the moral questions necessary in benefitting from experimentation on humans, and finally decided, "Scott would understand."

Hank poked a syringe into a small glass bottle and began filling it. "You're using this to have sex with his mom. I think everyone's happier if we stick to hypotheticals."

"Who said anything about sex?" Charles replied. He rolled up his sleeve and held up his arm to Hank. "I want to find out if Ruth knows how to tango."


	38. Chapter Thirty-Eight

_Alaska winters mean days of night. For Chris, it means the base is under harsh, stadium-style lighting and cold so intense his shirt chafes his nipples. He feels the temptation to lose his mind a little and worries about Katherine. Chris is strong, with years of military training, and even he finds it difficult to endure._

_To his surprise, Katherine thrives._

_He arrives home late to find her sitting under the stars on the front steps. He will never forget the glimmers of starshine on her face, her sweet smile, the way she holds out a blanket to wrap them up together._

_He arrives home early to find her practically singing the poetry she recites to Scott while she (optimistically) cooks dinner._

_He arrives home, always, to find her smiling. Now that Scott sleeps through times Katherine designates as night, she is happy again. So he doesn't worry about home, or about Katherine. Instead he looks forward to the end of the day._

_So he is surprised when she asks, "Do you worry about another Great War?"_

_Chris lies beside her, happy. Sated. Wondering how her brain forms deep thoughts when his struggles to understand sentences. "Hm… no. War to end all wars," he recounts. Casual as it sounds, he is truly grateful he was too young for the Great War._

_"But, Chris, there is still war! There's the war in Spain."_

_"Civil war." Terrible, yes, but unlikely to involve foreign powers._

_Katherine sighs and caresses his face. "I have this terrible fear that one day I'll be far away from you again."_

_Chris wants what any man would want: he wants to promise he will never leave. He loves his wife. He loves his son. He loves this silly little family of theirs… but he loves his country, too. And he is a soldier._

_He takes her hand and squeezes it, and he makes the only promise he can. "I'll always come back to you."_

* * *

 

It had been years since Charles stood up for anything, let alone to pull on a pair of trousers. In a way the task was disappointing. He hadn't tried to stand in the lab, even though Hank claimed he should be able to. If it wasn't going to work, it wasn't going to work in private.

Charles finished buttoning his pants, tucked in his shirt, and took another step.

What a thing to do!

He paused and took a deep breath. Tears prickled at his eyes. He looked down at his feet, feeling them support his weight—feeling them at all. But he knew Hank's cure was temporary and there were things he wanted to do far more than weep for his now-functional legs.

Instead, he went to find Ruth.

Hank had warned that the serum might dampen Charles's power. Although there were only two other people in the house, two others within range, he already felt the difference. It was a bit like the way being high gave one a break from intellect. (Not that Charles knew, if one of the kids were nearby to hear the answer!)

So it was an interesting experience for him, searching someone out by his senses and by his knowledge of her. Not that she was difficult to track down. Half the mansion smelled of dry-roasted spices, which meant Ruth was measuring out and preparing what she would need for the week.

Charles decided to surprise her. What other opportunity would he have? So he made his way, softly, around to the door—only to step into the kitchen and find it empty.

The lights were on and several bags of spices sat open. She always bought the bags from the specialty shop; it was about half an hour's drive, but where else would you find 150 grams of ground cumin?

He looked around. Ruth had been here, that much was clear, but she was gone now.

And then, quite suddenly, Charles felt himself slammed against the wall, his arm wrenched up behind his back. He groaned. He had never been much of a fighter even at the best of times—did his best against Erik, but never stood a chance here.

"Who are you?!"

"Ruth, it's me."

"This is a stupid lie."

He tried to shift his hand, but she was having none of it. He had always known Ruth was strong. He had seen her training the others, so he knew she was a skilled fighter, too. This was the first time he was on the wrong end of those skills.

He insisted, "It's true. Please."

"Raven—"

"No! No, it's me. Hank designed a cure."

"Of course he did."

"You have a birthmark on the underside of your left breast and freckles on your back. And scars from two bullets, and an otherwise… flawlessly beautiful body."

There was hesitation, her grip loosening just slightly. Charles flexed his fingers. She had to know how she had limited the circulation!

And then her grip tightened again.

"Charles Xavier is not the only man I have screwed," she said. Only she didn't say 'screwed'. "This is not private information."

A tiny part of him felt absolutely delighted, totally in love with her.

A larger part of him was worried about how cold his fingers felt.

"For pity's sake, Ruth, it's me! You know me! You kissed me under the mistletoe last Christmas—after calling me an idiot—we've got two children—" Not biologically, but they both knew it was true "—you make them milk and honey when they're sick, you know me."

Finally, she released him.

"What the hell were you thinking?" she demanded.

"I was trying to surprise you. It was meant to be romantic. Rather spoiled the effect," and he was a touch sore about that. Charles did not get many opportunities to be playfully romantic with Ruth and, no, he probably wasn't strong enough to sweep her off her feet, but…

Well, he had been an imaginative man once, in that way. Just for once, just for tonight, he thought Ruth might be with that version of him.

"So you decide to frighten me," she said, shaking her head. "I know the footsteps of every person in this house, I thought…"

Charles sighed. Of course—she thought he was an intruder. He had never been a soldier, himself, but he had heard such people were never off their guard. Clearly it was true of Ruth.

He reached out to stroke her cheek, aware of the conflict there, the question. Would she allow it? It was the first time Charles realized how short Ruth was. Tall, for a woman, but several inches shorter than him now.

"I'm so sorry, love. I didn't think."

She slipped her hand over his and brought it to her lips.

"But you are walking!"

"I am. I… Hank's worked out a cure. It's temporary—"

"Hank can cure a spinal cord injury?"

Charles opened his mouth to explain the science, saw that would be lost on Ruth and changed his mind. "He can temporarily reverse the effects using some of the same technology he's using to fix Scott's aging process."

Ruth was a difficult woman with whom to read specifics, but there was definite disapproval and a touch of confusion there. "This is technology from Scott?"

"Well, yes, but of course he's aware—"

She took a step back, away from Charles. "I cannot believe… I thought you were a good man."

It hurt. It truly did.

"How can you say that?"

"You are benefiting from this! From experiments on children, your child, you are benefiting from it. For what? To walk for a few hours?"

"To… for you," he managed. "I wanted you to have someone normal for one night. To make you happy."

"I am happy," she said.

Clearly, this was a general statement. Now, specifically now, she was beginning to cry. It just about broke his heart.

"This is what you think?!" she demanded. "You think I am… you think it is important to me that you cannot walk?" She shook her head, almost like an instinct. "Charles," almost a whisper, cracked and broken, "what have you done?"

He wanted to say that she was overreacting, that he didn't see what all the fuss was about. Didn't he? He was _walking_. For the first time in years, he was walking, and it felt like the entire world.

What he did not fully understand was her objection to it.

"You are benefiting from the exploitation of a child and you have done this in my name."

Charles objected, "For pity's sake! It's only a few hours of walking!" Really, she was overreacting. It was just a bit of fun.

"For what? Sex?"

"Well…"

"And for this you will use the mistreatment of a human being! For sex!"

She stared at him for a moment, seething, then shouted something he couldn't understand. The anger was clear, so much that she had switched to Hebrew to express herself fully. It certainly sounded angrier than English.

It didn't matter. She had put firmly into his head the idea that this was wrong and selfish, all the things he tried to push away when he rolled up his sleeve for the injection.

Charles couldn't help offering the last defense he had before she crushed him—and she had come quite close. He was small and sad and pathetic, and even he wasn't sure why he thought this was a good idea, but he was still a person.

"I just wanted to feel normal."

The words had their intended effect. They brushed the anger from Ruth's face, leaving gentleness in its place.

Then, stupidly, he continued: "I wanted to feel like a man."

Ruth kissed him, perhaps the tenderest kiss they had ever shared, then stepped back.

"Oh, Charles," she said. "This has made you far, far less of a man."


	39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

Perhaps worse than asking for help was asking for a ride, and for Charles those two went hand-in-hand. "I'm afraid I'm going to need your help with getting into the car…" It was the sort of thing he might have learned in physical therapy, had he bothered with it, or through practice had be bothered to do that. Instead Charles had all but refused to leave the mansion.

One might have said he shot himself in the foot, but the expression was rather moot for a paraplegic.

Nevertheless, after a moment, Chris nodded. "It's been a while since I was behind the wheel of something without a life support system."

"Well, it has a radio."

"You know I don't have a license."

Charles waved it off, so they headed into town. The first thing Chris managed was to lurch the car onto the lawn. Luckily the lawn was level to the driveway and he corrected course, and as long as he kept it below twenty-five he could control the clunker.

It didn't matter how nice a car was. It wasn't exactly a spaceship, now, was it?

After a few minutes' awkward silence, Chris ventured, "You and Ruth all right?"

It was an invasive question, but they had clearly been fighting. That much was obvious to Chris, which meant it had definitely been obvious to the kids.

Charles nodded. "What did you and Katherine fight about?"

"We didn't. Things were different in the '30s. We probably should have, but…" He trailed off, but his expression said enough. Though they never fought, there were dark times for Chris and Katherine. Charles had seen hints of them when he read Chris's mind, and in Scott's memories.

Personally, he thought Katherine should have fought with Chris a good deal more. Charles remembered how Katherine reacted when she saw what Chris had done to Scott. Yes, her first priority was keeping the boys safe, and she did threaten to leave him, but she hadn't.

Then again, he couldn't imagine a single mother in those days. His own mother remarried with that as part of the reason and they had significant financial resources. For a poor woman…

"How was the theater?" Charles asked, changing the subject. He hadn't heard much about the James Bond movies. Given the expressions on the kids' faces, there had been something inappropriate about them, but he didn't ask. They were old enough for a bit of inappropriate.

"Fine. Interesting movies—I can see why they're coming out with a third."

"You and Scott… things are okay?"

Things had improved ever since Ororo pushed Scott to talk to Chris. Scott and Chris were not exactly close, but Charles had watched them quite carefully. Scott could sit through a meal at the same table as Chris without losing his temper or becoming upset.

It was the only reason he was comfortable with Chris supervising the James Bond mini-marathon.

Chris nodded. "He's tolerating me."

Had he not been telepathic, Charles might have thought Chris accepted that. He certainly stated it easily enough—but that was simply what he said, and Charles felt how much that hurt. He even felt some of his own sympathy for it.

"How did you get him to trust you?"

Charles sighed. There were good and bad ways to say this.

"I showed him that he mattered. At the time, I had a relationship with another woman, an agent with the CIA—the Central Intelligence Agency," he explained. He wasn't sure when Chris and Katherine disappeared, but it must have been before the CIA was formed in 1947. "It's an intelligence agency, spies."

"You were involved with a spy?" Chris asked.

"Two spies," Charles corrected. "Although not at the same time."

Ruth rarely offered the details of her military history and Charles's understanding was that much of it was classified, but she was definitely part spy.

"When Moira—the woman I knew, Moira—she and several others in the police force felt that Scott was a danger. She was an ethical woman and I was afraid her ethics would lead her to conclude that leaving the powerhouse with the cripple was problematic. So I erased her memory of him. And because she might both be in danger and be compelled to provide information about us, I erased her memory of me."

"That's a lot to give up."

"It didn't seem so, at the time."

Charles supposed if it had been longer… but the time he had with Moira and Erik was a matter of weeks. He missed his legs and he missed Raven, but all he had with Moira was the beginning of a potential something. At the time it had seemed significant, but in retrospect, minimal at best.

"Powerhouse, huh?"

"Oh, yes," Charles said. "It can be difficult to see sometimes, they're so young, but Scott and Ororo are very powerful. What's both fascinating and frightening about Scott is that his ability is a continuous, unexplained power. Ororo works in harmony with nature. She can influence it, harness any power of wind or rain, but there are limits. She's still learning. Scott… it's his own power."

"I didn't realize."

"Well, he can be…"

"I haven't proved myself."

"Not yet," Charles acknowledged. Scott's loyalties were not lightly won. "Part of the reason I ask is that Ruth and I… could benefit from time to ourselves. Hank and Alex I can at least trust on their own for an evening, but Scott and Ororo are young enough to need some supervision. Not a lot, they're largely independent."

"You're asking me to babysit," Chris summarized.

"In essence."

It really was quite simple. They mostly looked after themselves and one another, and had shown themselves to be more than capable in an emergency. If Scott had another nightmare, Alex and Ororo would be there. Really Chris's role would be breaking up any fights that should occur.

When they reached town, Chris helped Charles out of the car—neither of them was thrilled with that—and they parted ways. Chris, not knowing much else, planned to find his son and have a chat with Alex.

Charles did the same.

The library was one of the few places in town he could access. Too many had a stoop, or a few steps, or simply lacked the ramp he needed to access them. Charles realized that if he meant to truly live in this town, he would need to do something about that.

Luckily he had the resources to follow up on it. Charles knew it was possible. A few generations back, one of his ancestors paid for about half of a museum; Charles was still a member of the board of directors, officially. A ramp wouldn't be tough to pay for.

He made his way into the library. It was sleepy. He noticed a couple of older individuals browsing the periodicals and the librarian behind the desk. Because he wasn't sure where to look for Scott, Charles approached the librarian.

"Good afternoon," he began, "I'm not sure you remember me, I'm—"

"Charles Xavier," the librarian interrupted. She leveled her gaze in a way that made him feel like a child. "Of course I remember you. I had never seen late fees so high before. Nor have I seen any since."

He laughed. "I was young and reckless."

She raised her eyebrows. "Yes you were. And I'm glad you're here. Please wait a moment."

Charles waited while Mae disappeared into the back office. When she returned, she handed him a manila envelope. It was surprisingly heavy.

"Scott has been here forty hours a week and then some. That is far past the point of a volunteer."

Not that he disagreed, but Charles had to ask, "And this is…?"

"Wages. He won't accept it, but I trust you will. Start him a college fund."

Charles considered for a moment, then nodded. Scott was at the library every day and going from what he recounted in the evenings, he was quite involved. He had spent a week checking over the card catalog, something even Scott considered tedious.

He didn't ask how much was in the envelope, just slipped it into his bag. He had dug out his battered leather messenger bag that saw him through college and post-graduate studies, deciding it was necessary.

"He loves coming here."

"It's been wonderful having him," Mae replied. "You're very lucky."

To his surprise, she clearly meant that. It wasn't what people usually thought of a man in a wheelchair, lucky.

"Thank you."

Scott stepped out a few moments later. He started to smile when he saw Charles, but his expression quickly shifted to one of worry.

"Is something wrong?" Scott asked. "What happened?"

"No, it's nothing like that—I just came to see you."

Scott was puzzled. "Oh."

"I was—"

"I mean, that's—it's just a surprise. It's a nice surprise."

"Shall we take a walk?" Charles suggested, aware that this was awkward for Scott and hoping a bit of space might help.

Scott looked between Charles and Mae. "Is that…?"

"Of course," Mae said. "Go ahead."

As they headed away from the library, Charles said, "Mae seems quite fond of you."

"Mae's great. She's a great librarian, a great person. Did you know she's a grandmother?"

"I… suppose I knew she had children," he said, though he hadn't. Charles had not been as involved with the library as Scott was; he was always more at home in a laboratory. Because it was nearly August, with precisely the sort of weather one would expect, Charles asked, "Do you want to get ice cream? That's a few blocks."

Scott shook his head. "Stairs."

Charles swallowed the urge to swear. That was rather inconvenient.

"There's the diner," Scott suggested.

"The diner?"

"On Third. Milkshakes."

"Of course. I was just considering that myself."

Scott didn't say anything, but he shook his head.

"All right, I hadn't thought of it—I would have."

"Yes, Dad."

It was Charles's turn to shake his head, but they both laughed.

"I'm sorry I was so uncomfortable when you arrived. I just—thought something must have happened. Alex had done something, or Ororo."

Difficult assumptions to argue with. Generally Charles would say that Alex and Ororo were capable of looking after themselves, but that had often been untrue of Alex and Ororo had only just had the cast taken off. She was rather more reckless than usual.

"Everything's fine."

Scott nodded. "I know that now."

"And I wanted to talk to you," Charles acknowledged. Ulterior motive, but not too nefarious. They could talk at home, but there was always the risk of interruption.

They reached the diner and Scott held the door.

"Thank you."

He shifted a chair to another table. It was a mix of thoughtful and embarrassing, making Charles feel like a terrible inconvenience. He could not help but feel he had been right to keep to his own home. Scott didn't look at him differently, though.

Charles was an expert of recognizing those looks.

"What did you want to talk about?" Scott asked when they were settled. "Chris?"

"Well—yes. You two seem to be getting along better."

Scott nodded. "It's not easy. I—"

He stopped when a waitress stopped by their table. Charles watched Scott interact with her, even the briefness of ordering a milkshake was awkward. His first thought was that Scott still struggled to speak to new people.

Then he realized Scott wasn't shy because the waitress was a stranger. Nor was it because she was a townie. He found her attractive!

When she had walked away, Scott cleared his throat and began again, "It's easier to see him as a person, but there's a… there are questions. I know he thought Alex and I died, but still, he could have come back." He shrugged and rattled off the last like it had not really mattered, "I needed him and he wasn't there."

"That's going to be very difficult to accept until you can speak to your father about it."

Scott nodded. "I don't know how I could," he said, "and he's not here much longer."

That was something Charles knew. Chris planned to meet his brothers in arms. Once his ship was fixed, he would be leaving Earth, possibly forever. None of them had discussed the possibility of Alex leaving with him.

"I know how this has weighed on you," Charles said, "and I'm proud of you for the way you've handled it." Seeing the incredulity in response, he added, "You lost your temper a few times, maybe more than a few, but you've also kept up with your studies, looked out for your siblings, not to mention your first job!"

"I'm just a volunteer," Scott objected.

"A 40-hour-a-week volunteer," Charles replied, "that's more than just volunteering. That's quite a commitment to keep."

"Well… thank you."

"Though I don't suppose I could convince you to tell me what you and Ororo have been up to," he said, only half joking.

Scott smiled and shook his head. "You'd have to read my mind."

Charles had suspected that. He took something out of his bag and offered two books to Scott. Hesitant, Scott took them.

"These are new," he observed.

"Yes, silly of me to overlook that," Charles replied dryly. The bookstore had been a rather frustrating endeavor. The wooden stairs were quaint, but resulted in his asking the woman working there to show him some of the newer books, then handing her cash for a short-distance transaction.

Still, here was the end and he had the books. Both were meant for younger audiences, one a picture book, but they were the sorts of things Scott often read. Charles had seen _Island of the Blue Dolphins_ come home several times.

Scott opened the picture book first.

The story began, _The night Max wore his wolf suit…_

Scott was often closed off. He seemed suddenly very young, undefended just enjoying the story.

He laughed. "I think this is about my brother!"

Not literally, of course, but Charles saw the similarities between the rampaging little boy in his wolf pajamas and the havoc that was… Havok.

As Scott read, Charles realized he was missing possibly the highlight of the book.

"May I see that, Scott?"

He returned the book.

Charles returned to the first page. "Close your eyes, please."

Scott looked puzzled, but he obeyed. And Charles began, silently, to read. To anyone else they would have looked strange sitting there in silence, but Charles wasn't concerned. He read, projecting the illustrations into Scott's mind—giving him the chance to see Max's monster party in every color on the page.


	40. Chapter Forty

_Chris arrives home every night to the same greeting: "Daddy!" Babies can't run. Even babies who are really toddlers now, babies who walk and talk almost comprehensibly… cannot run. It's more of a fast-waddle._

_Scott fast-waddles over, pauses two feet away, and holds up his arms. And how could anyone resist those eyes?_

_Chris picks him up. "What did you and Mommy do today?"_

_"Weeding!"_

_"Reading? Ah, a change in the routine. Something different."_

_Toddlers don't understand sarcasm. It comes across as pure silliness and Scott giggles. "No, Daddy, like awways!"_

_"Like always, huh? Katherine?" Chris calls. It's not a particularly large house. Where is she hiding? He rounds the corner and nearly bumps into her. They regard one another, then both say it at the same time: "I have news."_

_Chris pauses and takes a longer look at her. Katherine's face has always been easy to read. When she is stressed, unhappy, it betrays her. There's something now, something that he can't read, but he sees he joy there as well. She looks happy—and incredibly beautiful._

_"You go ahead," she says._

_"I've been offered a promotion. The money isn't much better," though it needn't be, they live comfortably, "but, Katherine, it's in Hawaii."_

_Chris has flown several trips to the island colony. The way he talks about it, anyone would want to move there. They keep a tiny bottle of black sand in the kitchen and Katherine has a cowrie shell bracelet—he thought back to a month ago when she smiled at him, the way she does, the shells on her bracelet and nothing more._

_"Chris, that's wonderful! Congratulations! You must be—oh, I can't imagine how happy you must be."_

_He nods. "We're moving to Hawaii." Saying the words makes it real: finally, he can share with Katherine, with Scott, this world he has said so much about. His son, who has seen a winter so bad their bathroom roof collapsed under the snow, will see palm trees and feel sand between his tiny toes._

_Katherine hugs him. "That's great. Congratulations, sweetheart." The enthusiasm is more for Chris than for the move itself, but he can live with that. He would hear if she were unhappy._

_"Did you hear that, baby?" Katherine asks Scott. "We're going to live in Hawaii."_

_Scott looks blank for a moment. Then, sensing what his mommy wants, he claps and cries, "Yaaaaay!" It's almost unfair how adorable his attempts at clapping are: fingers spread out as far as they'll go, puffy soft hands meeting too fast._

_"Katherine, what did you want to tell me?"_

_"Well, I…" she begins, resting her hands on her stomach, then shakes her head. "It can wait."_

_"You're worrying me!" he says, reaching for her hand. "Katherine, what is it?"_

_"I…" She looks around. "I don't want to overshadow your big news. It can wait."_

_Overshadow the news? What could overshadow a move to Hawaii?_

_"Is everything all right?"_

_"Of course! Everything's wonderful, I'm just—well—there'll be a little more space in Hawaii, won't there?"_

_Chris has no idea. These aren't the concerns men have and, in truth, it’s a touch disappointing. It seems the right thing to say, though, so he assures her, "Of course, Katherine, if that's what you want."_

_"Chris, I…"_

_He looks at her: the too-bright eyes, the joy in her, the hands over her stomach. There’s something in her expression he can’t read and it scares him._

_“Are you sick, is something—wrong?”_

_“No—no, I… we’re having another baby.”_

_"You're pregnant?"_

_She nods, laughs, and begins to cry._

_For Chris, it's a first. He learned about Scott when he saw the very swollen belly on Katherine's broomstick form. He didn't get to hear like this and it astounds him. Inside his wife is another human being, a tiny little soon-to-be person. There's going to be a fresh new being in the world and Chris is the second person to learn about it—just after Katherine._

_Scott looks between the two of them, shouts, "Yaaaay!" and offers another round of starfish-hand clapping._

_Well—maybe Chris was the third!_

* * *

 

Originally, Charles and Ruth planned to have their no-kid-interruptions-allowed date on a Saturday. Then they realized that was pointless. They didn't need to go out on the weekend when most adults else had jobs. So they opted for a Wednesday instead.

It was a weird Wednesday.

It was an unsurprisingly hot day. By the time Scott reached the mansion, he felt like he might melt into a puddle on the road. His hair was plastered to his head and his undershirt was soaked—he had learned the unpleasant way not to wear a decent shirt while riding his bike in July.

"Hey!" Ororo called. She waved from her perch on top of the ship.

Scott stopped his bike. He waved back. "Still haven't learned your lesson about that thing, have you?"

She stuck out her tongue.

"You're gonna break your arm again."

She shook her head. "Come up."

"You can't be serious."

"C'mon, it's fun—we'll do the thing."

Scott raised his eyebrows. "After more than a month without practicing?"

"We were good at it before. Well, I was good at it, you could have stood to loosen up."

He knew she wasn't saying that to be mean. It was an observation of something he needed to work on; matter-of-fact and simple as that. His moves were not exactly smooth.

"It'll be fun," she promised.

"I had fun once," Scott grumbled, hopping off his bike.

She giggled and held out a hand to help him climb onto the wing.

* * *

Inside the ship, Chris recalled another, similar conversation he had heard before Ororo broke her arm.

"This something I need to worry about?" he asked Alex.

Alex was currently examining the wires under the dash with a mastery of someone who had _definitely_ never hotwired a car. Or a motorcycle, really where would you even get that idea?

He looked up at his dad. "What? Scott and Ororo?"

"Yes, if they're—well—you know your mother and I—"

"Yes, Dad! I know! Scott was an accident! Don't make me hear about this again! One, Scott's not having sex, not with anyone. I'm not sure he even knows what sex is. Two, Ororo's his sister, so he's definitely not having sex with her. The adoption meant a lot to him. And C, does that sound like sex to you?"

Chris had to admit, it didn't. Actually, it sounded more like someone walking in quick circles.

* * *

 

Inside the mansion, Hank had taken out what looked like a Campbell's soup can mimicry of a Polaroid camera. At the click of a button, it emitted a series of taps and a bright light.

"What have you built this time, Hank? And, may I add, how lovely to see you in the daytime."

"Thanks."

It was almost six, with late afternoon sunlight and no hint of twilight in the sky.

"It's a camera. Sort of, well, I haven't tested it yet—are you really not seeing this?"

"What?"

Charles looked where Hank indicated. Outside, Scott and Ororo were… apparently dancing on a spaceship, glowing from the sinking sun. It was actually quite sweet and for a moment he simply observed.

Ruth joined them a moment later, asking, "What are we looking at? Ah."

Of course a moment later Hank wasn't looking at Scott and Ororo so much as Ruth, who apparently decided to pull out all the stops if they were going on a real date. He had seen her wear dresses before, but not the slinky black one. He didn't know she had a slinky back dress. Or that she did more than braid her hair or tie it in a ponytail. Or that she used makeup.

Ruth smiled. Enigmatic. "Compliment accepted, Mr. McCoy."

They waited until the kids came inside again. Both had the same surprised look at Ruth's suddenly very feminine appearance. She hugged them both, despite Scott's protest that did she want to do that when he was all sweaty, and told them to be good.

"And no fighting with your brother about pizza."

"He doesn't even like mushrooms," Scott said. "He said mushrooms because I don't like mushrooms."

"No pizza fighting."

Ororo asked, "What about other fighting?"

Ruth considered for a moment. "Use good judgment."

"No fighting," Charles amended.

"Unless you must."

" _No fighting_."

"Of course," Ruth agreed, with a conspiratorial wink.

Charles shook his head. "Don't burn the house down," he said.

"You never let us have any fun," Ororo joked, hugging him.

"I know."

When they left, Scott bolted upstairs. Ororo followed him to a room full of furniture covered in white sheets—the ghosts of furniture past. "Why don't we play here anymore?" she wondered.

"Because you always beat me at cards," Scott replied absently. He was at the window, watching the car peel down the driveway. Ruth always drove like she was on a racecourse.

Ororo toyed with a fold in one of the sheets. "They're coming home," she said.

"I know. Of course they are." Scott said it too quickly.

"Scott."

"I _know_."

She looked around the room. They used to play cards here, but now there was nothing fun. Unless they created it themselves.

"Scott?"

"Hm."

The car was out of sight now, but he stayed by the window, peering out at an uneventful, too-long afternoon.

"We were good at that dance."

"Yes, we did."

"Scott."

"Yes."

"It's just overnight."

"I know."

Ororo frowned. Scott still hadn't left the window.

"She shaved her legs."

"Huh?"

"She only shaves her legs when someone's gonna _see_ them."

"Oh."

"Scott. Someone's gonna… see your mom's legs."

At first he simply nodded. She saw the moment the implication settled in. He turned to her, suddenly, open-mouthed in shock that she would even say something like that. "But… you… how could… she's your mom, too!"

Ororo stuck out her tongue, then turned and bolted from the room.

Scott took off after her.


	41. Chapter Forty-One

That evening they ate pizza in the kitchen. Initially they were going to watch TV, but the only thing on was Andy Griffith and Scott found the show unsettling, so they relocated. There wasn't enough space for everyone to sit at the table, but Ororo claimed a spot on the counter and convinced Scott to join her (despite many expressions that suggested eye-rolling).

The conversation happened in fits and starts. They mentioned the construction on the mansion (nearly finished) and a rather brief conversation about Hard Day's Night (mostly Hank and Scott). Only once they had turned to the weather did all of them realize how desperate they were.

So for a while everyone ate in silence.

"It's weird that I have work tomorrow," Alex commented. "This feels like a party—the world's most boring party, but still."

"It just doesn't feel… Wednesday-y," Scott agreed.

"For you it's a wild party," Alex retorted.

Scott flipped him the bird.

"Okay, but who here can honestly say they've been to a party?"

"I've been to ritual ceremonies," Ororo offered. When the others looked at her, she shrugged. "The Maasai have a lot of rituals. That's who I lived with after I left Cairo," she explained to Chris.

"Did Maasai have weekends?" Alex asked.

"Not really," Ororo said. She wiped her greasy fingers on a paper napkin as she explained, "We had to get water every day and the boys watched the cows, so it wasn't anything you could just not do."

"Huh. Okay, well, I guess I'm glad to have weekends at all. Even if I can't have mushroom pizza," Alex said.

"You don't like mushroom pizza," Scott told him.

"I could learn to like it."

"I'm sorry to deny you the chance to grow as a person."

Alex nodded. "I accept your apology. I really do."

* * *

 

That night, Scott stayed awake, reading. He was fairly inconspicuous, really, a side effect of being himself in the same family as Alex and Ororo. All right, and he had chosen somewhere he was likeliest to be overlooked, on the sofa in front of the television. With the TV off, who expected to find anyone here?

Not that such things mattered.

After all, how could they?

The Two Towers had just begun—even knowing what came next, Scott was in another world reading these books—like it might be different now—like the Horn of Gondor was sounding just as it did when they left Rivendell—and—

"Scott?"

He looked up from the book suddenly, startling. Chris stood over him.

"H-hi."

"What are you doing awake? It's almost midnight."

"Umm…" Scott looked from the book to the man he realized he had accepted as, if not his father, at least an authority figure.

He sighed, closed the book, and headed for bed.

Chris called after him, "Good night," but it was weird to hear and Scott wasn't sure how to answer.

Scott changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth.

He noticed a light on the way to the bathroom. On the way back, he paused, and tapped gently on the door.

“Come in.”

Of course Alex was still awake. Even when he needed to wake up early, he tended to burn the midnight oil—and Scott, who also had an early morning ahead of him, wasn’t in any position to judge. He stepped into the room and shut the door. Alex was on his bed, a notebook propped up against his knees.

He sighed. “I don’t want to talk about it, Scott.”

“Don’t you think we should?”

“The ship’s not finished,” Alex said, “so why bother?”

“It’s almost finished, and because…” Scott took a deep breath to steady himself. “Because I know you want to leave with him.”

“And you want me to stay—”

“I want—”

Alex interrupted, frustrated, “There’s nothing here for me! I blew it, okay? I always will. If there’s a chance for me to start over, I’m taking it. Because staying here won’t work. We both know that. School,” indicating the notebook in his hand, “won’t fix it. I’ll screw up eventually, I always do. I can barely hold down a job and that’s not going to change. I don’t belong here.”

“Alex—” Scott began, and stopped himself.

Alex was doing so much better. Scott wanted to tell him that, to point out that Alex was studying so he did do well in school, that he had held down two jobs for most of the summer. Wasn’t that a step in the right direction? He could change. He was changing, he was doing really well.

But Alex wasn’t going to hear any of that. He was too set.

“You do what’s best for you,” Scott said. “If you want to go, I don’t want you to stay here for me.”

Alex gave him an uncertain look. “Is this a trick?”

“It’s no trick. I know you want to go, and if you do—whatever happens, you’re still my brother, okay?”

Alex sighed and shook Scott’s hand. He couldn’t argue with that.

“Twerp.”

“Jerk.”

“Now leave me alone! I need to study.”

Scott went back to his own room and buried himself under the covers. It was really too hot for covers, but he felt too exposed without them. Not that this mattered. He wouldn't be sleeping, anyway.

He appreciated that Ororo had tried to keep his attention off the subject, but it didn't change the fact that Scott was anxious. He had flickers of it when he was at the library—awareness that everybody he loved was somewhere else, and anything could happen. But actually watching them drive away, and now with the prospect of Alex leaving…

He rolled onto his side and curled around himself, starting to feel like he might be sick.

The door creaked open and shut again. The lack of footsteps told Scott who was in his room even before she crawled into bed next to him. No one else moved that silently.

"Finally. I didn't think you were gonna sleep."

"'M not asleep."

"I didn't mean _sleep_ sleep. Can we talk?"

"Do I get a choice?"

"I can go."

"No, it's okay. Let's talk. What's going on?"

Ororo sighed.

After a while, Scott shifted to face her. They couldn't see each other in the dark, but the message wasn't lost.

"Is this about you telling Chris who I am?"

A sharp gasp, then, "How did you know that? It was ages ago."

"Because you knew what you were doing and you did it to hurt me, and if you weren't thinking about it all the time, you'd be a different kind of person."

"I wish I were a different kind of person. It's miserable to think about."

"Good."

"Shut up."

"You did something intentionally mean, you're supposed to feel bad for it."

Ororo sighed again. "How do I stop feeling bad, then?"

"You have to be a better person."

"How?"

The answer was soft, tiny words swallowed up by the darkness.

"By being braver than you are now. You trust me, right?"

She either nodded or shook her head. The only answer he had was noise in the dark. "Yes," she explained. "You did save my life that time."

It was strange to think about. What they were now was so normal, just a couple of kids really, huddled together and trying to act like adults. She trusted him because he was consistent and reliable, but nothing was a better example than the time they were attacked by a giant flying robot.

So much for normal.

"But you always act tough around me, and you don't have to. I know you're a nice person. I'm not going to take advantage."

"Everyone takes advantage."

"Not here. Not me."

She considered it for a while. So did Scott, barely breathing he was so hopeful. This was what people didn't see in Ororo, but he did. Everyone saw that she was tough. He had peeked under the toughness. He knew who she was when they were alone, just them… and he wanted other people to see it, too, because it truly was the best of her.

So he had protected her. The Professor meant well, but there was enforcing rules and there was letting someone accept responsibility for what they had done. Scott knew it as well as anyone: consequences did not mean responsibility.

Consequences made things balance.

Responsibility made you better.

"No," she murmured, and he breathed a sigh of relief, "not you."


	42. Chapter Forty-Two

_Everything stands ready: the now-empty crib, the stacks of startlingly white diapers, the blankets and baby clothes. Scott has been upgraded to a big-kid bed and potty training. He asks about the baby, the same questions on Chris and Katherine's mind: when will it be here? What will it look like? How big will it be? Is it a girl or boy? What's its name?_

_That one they know: Alexander for a boy, Alexandra for a girl._

_The pregnancy finds Katherine on bed rest, the little demon inside her wearing her down. She sleeps, rests, and tries to assuage Chris's fears._

_One day he finds Katherine napping—not unusual at all—and retrieves Scott from the neighbors._

_"Home the'e, Daddy."_

_"We're not going home right now. Mommy needs her rest and you need to have fun."_

_Scott is a deeply unnerving child, solemn more often than most adults. Chris doesn't know where he picked that up, but it's about time someone did something!_

_"Where?" he asks, wriggling in his father's arms._

_"The beach."_

_It's no surprise Scott hasn't been in the ocean. The complications in the pregnancy arose shortly after they reached Hawaii; Katherine simply hasn't been able to take him and Chris works too much._

_Not today._

_Today they leave their clothes on the black sand—because if undershorts aren't fit for swimming in, Chris doesn't know what is—and wade into the ocean. Chris holds his son above the water, his hands wrapped nearly completely around that tiny chest._

_"Ready?" he asks._

_"Webby!"_

_He lowers Scott until the waves swallow his feet, until peals of pure toddler joy fill the beach. Only when Scott's feet disappear up to the knees does he begin to wriggle, trying to get out._

_Chris hauls him up._

_"Again again!"_

_And again his feet are swallowed by the water._

_After the third dip, Chris asks, "Are you ready to go all the way under?" with the kind of enthusiasm few people can resist. Of course his two-year-old son is not immune._

_Scott nods._

_"Hold your breath," Chris reminds him, and Scott puffs his cheeks out with the hugest breath a toddler can manage._

_This shallow to the beach, the Pacific water is only cool against the blistering June day. Scott is only underwater a few seconds before Chris lifts him out again. He comes up dripping and gasping and laughing, spitting salt water while he squeals, "Again!"_

_Chris sits on the wet sand and shows Scott how to float on his back, pulls him through the water, watches him practice kicking. Holds him on his lap and points out the turtles he's wanted to share with someone since the very day Scott was born._

_Only when the sun begins to sink to the horizon do the Summers boys emerge from the ocean, dripping and wrinkled. Chris pulls on his pants. The heavy shirt is torture in this weather, but with evening coming on, he wraps it around Scott._

_Scott wrinkles his nose. "Itchy."_

_"Tell me about it, buddy," Chris retorts. "Come on. Let's go home and see Mommy."_

_"An' Alice?"_

_He laughs. "And maybe Alex, too."_

_"Tubble," Scott says, pointing. "Daddy, tubble!"_

_Trouble?_

_Chris has to look around to figure out what tubble is. "Turtle," he corrects. He shifts the toddler in his arms, letting Scott watch the 'tubble' until they are out of eyeshot._

_It isn't a long walk back home, but long enough for the end of a long day. Scott's grip slowly loosens as he falls asleep, breathing soft, steady breaths against Chris's neck. Of course he'll hear it from Katherine for bringing the boy home such a mess, all sea-salt and sand._

_Just as he approaches the front door, Scott stirs and mutters something about tubbles again, then promptly falls back to sleep._

* * *

 

Alex was no stranger to making mistakes. He knew every possible euphemism for the string of broken pieces left perpetually in his wake. At some point, the flotsam had begun to take with it pieces of his caring.

When he was eight, he found the adoption papers and insisted on being called Alex—and there was his "mother"'s broken heart.

Ten and bringing home the kind of report card that didn't go on the fridge.

Thirteen, awkward and gangly, the dishes just jumped out of his hand, the vase into his path.

At fifteen, the shards of glass from his "parents"' liquor cabinet.

Sixteen, his "dad"'s crashed car…

Right up to twenty-three and the last big one. His brother's ribs.

The truth about being a consistent screw-up is it makes you not care. It sure made Alex not care, because he had been there, done that about trying to do well and make things right. No matter what he tried, he was still Alex Summers: wrecking ball.

Still, as he sat in his father's spaceship, he reflected that it was rare a mistake looked quite like this. Mistakes looked shattered. They had jagged edges and hidden shards. They didn't look like this.

Like lights.

And the sound of humming.

Alex quickly powered down the ship, but he knew it was pointless. His dad would know.

He thumped down in the pilot's chair—in Chris's chair—and buried his face in his hands. The world was tilting around him.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there until he heard footsteps approach.

"Alex?" Chris asked. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah." Alex rubbed a hand over his face and looked up. His voice sounded ragged. "Yeah, everything's good, Dad."

"Okay."

Alex nodded. "Yeah."

"Let's see if we can get the dash finished today," Chris said, settling on the floor to have a look. "Huh. That's some good work."

"Yeah."

"Well, what do we have left to do?"

"Nothing," Alex said. "We don't have anything left."

And there was the trouble.

Two months ago, his dad's spaceship crashlanded on the front lawn. Now it was ready to go and that left Alex with a choice to make. He knew he was welcome with his father. He had heard stories of Chris's exploits, of his crew.

But.

He could go, but Scott would never abandon Charles. If Alex went with his father, he left his brother behind. If he stayed, he might never see his dad again. It was impossible.

"Alex…" Chris began. He took a seat in the copilot's chair. "I know you probably've been thinking about coming with me."

Alex nodded.

Chris, after a moment's thought, could only say, "Yeah."

When they gathered for house meetings, they did so in the sitting room. After missions, at the end of the semester, when someone's dad returned from the dead… and so everyone looked a mix of solemn and nervous when they gathered that morning in August.

Well, solemn, nervous, and sweaty. August in New York was defined by the swelter.

"What's going on, Dad?" Scott asked.

Charles indicated Chris.

"I'm, ah—I appreciate you all being here. I wanted to thank you for everything over the past few months. Alex and I have finished fixing the ship, and now that she's sky-worthy, I can get out of your hair."

It hit everyone differently. For all the stress Chris's presence had caused, most of them had come to care about him. And, yes, his leaving was always inevitable, but that did not make it welcome.

Scott looked to Alex, realizing first what this meant for him. This might be the day Alex decided to leave. Might be… it.

Alex shook his head—he wasn't sure.

Scott managed an incredulous look, which wasn't easy in sunglasses.

Alex looked away.

"If it's all right with you," Chris said, speaking to everyone and only to Charles at once, "I can stay a while. To—say goodbye."

"I suppose…" Charles began. "Well—Ruth?"

She shook her head. "No. You cannot do this, this is not fair. Chris, I know. You want more time with your sons. Now you cannot have that time—not with what you have said. Because now it is in the shadow. Perhaps a few days, for Alex to decide, but there must be a deadline."

Her reasoning was harsh and cold, but it was also fair. A long, drawn-out goodbye would only become increasingly painful.

Chris nodded. "Yes, you're right."

"Three days."

Too soon.

He nodded again.

"Three days," Chris agreed.

* * *

 

That afternoon, Scott sat on the stairs, ostensibly reading. He wasn't actually, though, and he had no one fooled.

Chris was working on the ship, cleaning it up and keeping himself busy.

Alex was around the side of the house, tinkering with something in the garage.

It seemed to be the Summers way. They knew there were conversations due to one another, but not how to initiate such conversations. So Chris and Alex were alone and while Ororo hovered closed by, she didn't interfere.

No, she left that to Charles. When he approached Scott, there was no question what this was about.

"I know," Scott said. "I'm going to talk to him. I'm—I'm gonna miss Alex."

"He might not leave."

"He will," Scott replied, and it was audibly breaking his heart. "We both know he isn't happy here. Things have been getting better, but… I can't expect him to stay here for no reason. Or just for me. I want what's best for Alex and that means being with his dad."

While it was true, and Scott meant it, anyone could hear that he was struggling. He lost his brother for twenty years and only just found him again.

"Chris will take care of him."

Charles nodded. "And what's best for you, Scott?"

Scott shook his head.

"It's something you've often postponed thinking about, but you have a limited amount of time in which to speak to your father."

"He'll come back," Scott said.

"You're sure?"

Scott nodded. "He has to. Alex is with him."

Charles rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Dad…"

"I don't worry about you and Alex," Charles said. "You fight sometimes, but you're not—well, it's not big issues, is it? It's you and Chris who need to make your peace. Scott, anything you don't say now, you may never have another chance."

"I want to say it right," Scott admitted. "I'm still… I know it's… he thought we were dead, I know, but all those nights in the orphanage, in some way, I was still waiting for someone to save me. And you did," he added, much more certain. "You saved me, but I was—but why didn't he? He was still my dad and it doesn’t make sense, but I still hate him for that."

Charles considered that for a moment. It was true that Scott had languished in that orphanage; it was true that Chris left him behind. Charles didn't blame Chris, but he understood why Scott did.

"Do you remember when you were reading _Of Mice and Men_? You told me you absolutely had to go to the library."

"Yeah, after I'd gone," Scott admitted, chagrined. "I was a kid."

Not even two years ago, but they had been important years.

"And the talk we had that day…"

Scott nodded. "You had been worried."

"Yes, I had! It was important to me that you understood why I was upset with you. And Chris doesn't know about the orphanage. You don't need to tell him, but it's not fair to punish him when he doesn't know why. Scott, you need to tell him or you need to say goodbye. He deserves that much."

Scott couldn't argue with that.

"Right now?" he asked.

"When you're ready. You certainly have the opportunity now."

And he wouldn't later.                                                

Scott nodded.

He didn't, not at first. It took a few false starts and deep breaths for Scott to stand up and walk down the lawn.

With each step, he went through ideas of what he might say. Sometimes the most difficult thing was to start a conversation… but Scott was fairly certain he could start with 'hey Chris'. What did he want his father to know?

Chris heard Scott coming and nodded at him. "'Morning."

Scott nodded back. "Hey."

They stood for a moment, neither sure what to say to the other.

"I'm taking the ship for a test run," Chris said, "if you want to come."

A part of Scott still wanted to say no—the part of him that was angry with Chris, that blamed him for all the pain in the years Chris spent away. But a bigger part of him really wanted something to distract from this conversation.

Not to mention that he was a teenage boy being offered a ride in a spaceship.

His only hesitated was to ask, "Ororo too?"

Chris nodded. "Of course."

"We should tell Hank if you're going to start the ship."

"Good idea."

"I'll go and ask."

Of course Ororo agreed, and of course Charles agreed. He telepathically reached out to Hank. Scott had been right: Hank _did_ want to watch the ship take off.

For his part, Charles… well, he wouldn't have minded a chance to ride in a spaceship, but he understood that this was more significant for the kids.

He watched, more than a little concerned, as the kids stepped into the ship and the door closed. Charles wasn't certain what he hoped for. If the ship didn't work as hoped, it might give Scott more time with Chris, more time to make his peace. Charles had no doubt that Scott and Alex would have a good talk before Alex left, but Scott and Chris had so much ground to cover.

But Ruth was right. The belief that the ship was fixed, founded or not, made what time remained a long-lasting goodbye.

The relief as the ship rose was bittersweet.

Hank's response was more one of fascination.

"What the—!"

As Chris's ship began to rise, with a blur and a pop something appeared in the sky. It started small, a dark dot, and swiftly grew.

Hank and Charles could only stare.

Well, that was new.

There were two spaceships over the Xavier mansion.

The newcomer zoomed in on the first ship, which jerked away—these two were not friendly. How could this be? Charles wondered, had Chris known someone might have pursued him here? Was it whoever damaged the ship to begin with?

It fired on Chris's ship.

Charles felt that shot like it had hit him. He wasn't concerned for his own safety, but Ororo and Scott were in that ship—being shot at—by aliens. Which is not a concern he had ever expected to have.

There was a glow at the back of Chris's ship, something like a taillight.

As the second spaceship zoomed toward Chris's, that not-taillight grew brighter until it swept around the ship. Charles wasn't taking his eyes off that ship.

So he saw, quite clearly, when Chris's ship dashed forward and quickly faded.

And was gone from the sky.


	43. Chapter Forty-Three

Something beeped and Chris swore.

"Shouldn't be picking up a signal," he muttered.

He sat in the pilot's seat with Ororo as copilot. For once Scott gave up the seat instead of calling shotgun. (Ruth did not believe in shotgun. To Alex it was sacrosanct.)

Chris slid his finger along the console and a screen appeared, like a radar, showing a single blip at about the second something smashed into the ship.

Chris swore. The controls jumped for a moment as he wrestled the ship out of its shaking response, and hurried into a dodging zigzag.

"What's going on?" Scott asked.

"Must've waited for me," Chris muttered.

" _What?_ "

"Damn. We'll have to jump."

"What?" Scott asked again, and again Chris didn't answer him.

The first jolt sent him crashing into the wall of the ship. He held onto Ororo's chair, his other hand grasping hers—they both realized this was serious. They didn't know what it was, but it was serious.

"Brace yourselves," Chris warned.

A sudden acceleration once more threw Scott into the wall of the ship. He didn't try to stand as the ship flew so quickly it rattled, but he saw the dark and stars through the windscreen. (What did you call a windscreen that kept a lack of atmosphere out?)

It was impossible to say how long this went on. The ship rocketed through space like… well, like a spaceship, and faster than any car, train, or airplane Scott or Ororo had ever known. Occasionally it would slow down just enough for Chris to swear.

This continued until, finally, they came to a stop near a larger ship. Their tiny transport next to this one was like a kitten next to an elephant (in outer space).

"Please tell me these people like you," Ororo said.

Chris chuckled and nodded. "They like me." He picked up what looked like half a walkie-talkie and said, "This is Flying Sergeant Chris Summers, U.S. Army, requesting permission to board."

It went quiet, then crackled to life with, "No more time to wait, Chris?"

"No more," Chris replied, grinning.

"Chris," Scott interrupted, tone sharp. He had finally picked himself up off the floor and was staring now out into the vast nothingness, an endless sky and a sea of tiny lights.

"Zee, you got Raza there with you?"

"I am here, Captain."

"Someone's on my tail, I think it's Krade—"

"We shall bring you aboard."

The tiny ship was swallowed into the larger one. When its door slid open, Chris told Ororo and Scott, "Wait here," and hurried out.

Ororo started to follow, an eye on Scott. She would take his lead on this one. After a moment, he nodded and left the small ship with her.

The larger ship was easy enough to navigate. They followed the sound of Chris's footsteps, and when those stopped, the sound of voices.

"…noted the coordinates," Chris was saying, his voice tense and urgent.

"I have done so."

The response came from parts of a man, though he had been heavily changed with one leg, an arm, and pieces of the opposite hand covered in metal. His only hair was a long ponytail tied high at the back of his head.

"Good man," Chris said. "Zee, when he comes through, I want that bastard blasted out of the sky."

His gunner nodded. She looked rather like a cat, or perhaps a skunk, in human form: furry with pointed ears and a puffy tail hanging over the edge of her chair. She was also clearly a woman, clearly enough that Scott looked away.

"Is done."

"You'll only have a moment to—"

"You born deaf, or have to practice?"

"Fair enough. We can only hope he makes it before the Empire."

"Or anyone else on Hepzibah's tail," added the fourth person in the control room. He was large, larger even than Hank, with green scales covering his body.

"Why Hepzibah tail?" demanded Hepzibah, flicking her tail at him.

"Because it is the nicest."

"Hmph. Well when you right…"

The ship that had attacked them earlier popped into the sky and immediately a burst of noise filled the room.

Chris swore. "Zee!" he shouted, but the ship's weapons were already firing on the tiny interloper, blasting him out of the sky. Scott tightened his grip on Ororo's hand.

There was no rejoicing, however.

"Chances no one picks up that transmission?" Chris asked.

"Slim to none, if they be at all," said the half-metal man.

"Right. Ch'od, get us out of the quadrant."

The big, green man nodded.

"Wait," Scott said, "out of the quadrant? We have to go home!"

Chris turned to him for the first time since they reached the room. He had been busy before, other things far more pressing, but now he gave them a sad look and shook his head.

"I'm sorry. We're fugitives, Scott, and the people following us—"

"I don't care!" he interrupted. "You're kidnapping us!"

"Earth would be in tremendous danger."

Scott seethed. "You _knew_."

"It's not exactly—"

Scott took a swing at him, landing his fist on Chris's jaw hard enough to make Chris stagger back. For a moment they stared at one another. The other adults began to stand, which made Ororo shift her stance. If this turned into a fight, they were dead. They would go down swinging.

Chris held up a hand. "No," he said, "it's all right."

With a roar, Scott rushed him, but he was angry now. He didn't have the advantages of surprise or even a remotely clear head. Chris caught him easily. "Scott, it'll be okay."

Scott ignored him, continuing to thrash, and Chris kept his hold tight until Scott began to relax.

"Okay," he said. "I'm okay."

Chris loosened his grip.

Scott grabbed Chris and hurled him to the floor, immediately falling on top of him. He pressed his knee into Chris's neck and leaned on it.

"Scott!" Ororo called.

Chris's face was changing color.

"Scott, don't!"

He didn't move on his own.

He moved because Hepzibah, the cat-skunk-lady, tore him off and deposited him back on the floor. "Chris?" she asked, kneeling beside him.

Ororo did the same for Scott. "Shvi," she murmured, seeing him start to get up. "Shvi, no, stay down."

"He's kidnapped us," Scott whispered hoarsely.

"I know."

"He stole us."

"I know."

"He's taken everything! Oh, no, Alex. Alex can't handle this!"

"Alex has Charles," Ororo reminded him. Charles would take care of him.

"He needs me—"

"I need you!" She leaned close, hugging Scott as she murmured, "I need you to be smart, Scott, because I'm scared, too, but we can't get back on our own. We can't survive here without their help. Understand?"

He nodded.

"Good." She drew back. "Apologize."

"Uh…"

"Tell him you're sorry! Call him 'dad'. Whatever it takes."

"No," Chris said. He still had a hand on his throat. At the decision, Ororo shifted closer to Scott. "You have every right to be angry. You've lost so much already."

Ororo squeezed Scott's shoulder. She heard the objection already: but they hadn't lost their home. Their home was taken from them. She knew very well that in the end it didn't matter. They still needed somewhere to sleep, something to eat, the goodwill of the people on this ship.

"We'll keep you safe until we can return you to Earth. Raza," Chris said, returning his attention to the crew.

"Ah… yes, Captain."

They returned to larger concerns for the moment, leaving Ororo and Scott to pick up the pieces as best they could. They were on a spaceship, probably hundreds if not thousands of miles from home. Neither of them knew if that was the floor tilting under them or just the feeling of everything they knew falling away.

"We'll get through this," she promised. She had been here before: lost a culture, a country, a continent, a language. She had lost everything. So she knew it was something survivable.

"I won't let anything happen to you," Scott said. "If I can keep myself from… doing anything else stupid, I'll be okay, and I won't let anything happen."

She nodded. "We'll be fine."

"Yeah."

Neither of them believed it. The loss was still too raw. It hadn't even settled into grief yet. Sure, they had lost homes. They had lost families, cities… but not planets. Not everything.

Scott nodded at the view through the window. "Look."

In case either of them needed a reminder.

"It's not even the stars from home."

**_The End._ **


End file.
